


Acts of Generous Cruelty

by broomclosetkink



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blackwater AU, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Romance, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/pseuds/broomclosetkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joffrey the Bastard King is not known for his acts of generosity, but when he endeavors to both disgrace Lady Sansa Stark, the daughter of a traitor, and punish his once-faithful dog, Sandor Clegane, he inadvertently gives them the greatest gift of all: each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the living embodiment of perfection that is Manniness.

Stomach taunt with anxious nerves, Sansa moves through the path made for her by the courtiers who have come to witness their boy king's notion of justice. They take care not to touch neither her nor the fabric of her fluttering silk gown, as though afraid a traitor's blood may be passed through contact.

 

Few of them are brave enough to catch Sansa's gaze. When they do, she smiles and tips her head in greeting. A cold, hard part of her – a part that is snow and ice and entirely _Stark_ – says, _I hope it shames you, how you flinch from the eyes of a powerless girl like me_.

 

Ahead of her, Joffrey sprawls on the Iron Throne, lacking both grace and dignity. He looks a spoiled little boy playing pretend, and it gives Sansa a small measure of strength she desperately needs; he may appear to be a foolish brat in cloth of gold and a stupidly crooked crown, but _she_ is a lady in truth. He is only a mummer's farce of royalty.

 

“Lady Sansa,” Joffrey calls, his worm lips wisted in a smirk that makes Sansa's stomach cramp painfully. “We are glad to see you've come to humble yourself before your King.”

 

“It always my pleasure to do so, Your Grace.” Curtsying deep and low, with a straight back and arms held just _so_ , Sansa burrows down to find the numb spot inside her chest. It helps her keep her tongue in line and tears at bay.

 

Looking up, Sansa can see the Queen, stiff and thin lipped, with hands knotted angrily in her lap. The sight makes hanging onto the numbness hard. This is the look the Queen wears when Joffrey has defied her commands, and there is nothing to be done for it; she had made him into what he is, and now not even _she_ can control him.

 

It should make Sansa happy to see the Queen suffer after all her cruelties, great and small. Instead it only scares her, right down to the very marrow of her bones. Whatever has so angered the Queen _cannot_ be good for Sansa.

 

“Do you know, Lady Sansa, that my small council has spent hours and _hours_ debating over what should be done with you? You are no longer my betrothed; instead you live off the kindness of the crown and my family, even though you are the daughter of a traitor and should by rights be in a cell to ensure you are not allowed to go the way of your father.” Joffrey's smile is sharp and brutal, green eyes glittering with malice as he laughs. “It's absurd, in all truth; you nothing more than a stupid little girl, and yet you cause such trouble for my advisers.”

 

Terror crawls up her throat, thick and acidic. Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue and grappling for words, Sansa's fingers twitch against her skirts. She wants to cling to them as she has nothing else to hold. “I am sorry, Your Grace,” she says, voice gone thin in fear. “I am unworthy for you or the council to think on. I know that, and I am ashamed to have caused you displeasure.”

 

They are pretty words. Words that reassure Joffrey of his power over her make him happy.

Sansa knows this well, and when she flicks her eyes up, she can see it in his smug gaze. He sees her fear, and it pleases him; he knows that under her fragile restraint and well-trained courtesies, she is far too close to falling apart.

 

“Fortunately, I am quite willing to settle the matter for them. I have decided –”

 

Lord Twyin steps forward, bending ever so slightly. His face could be that of statue's, blank and emotionless, if Sansa hadn't been able to see the throb of a very red vein at one temple. “My Liege, I think it would be best if we discussed this –”

 

“I have decided!” Joffrey snaps, narrowing his eyes and puckering his mouth in a way that is both cruel and impossibly childish. When my advisers bicker over simple tasks, it falls to me to judge what should be done, in my infinite wisdom as the King. Return to your post, Lord Hand.”

 

Stiffly moving back into his place just behind the throne, Lord Twyin Lannister has a look in his eyes that suggests he may well begin belching dragonfire from the force of his fury.

 

“Since you were once my lady, before your family shamefully turned against the throne, I will be _merciful_ , Lady Sansa –”

 

 _Gods be good_ , Sansa thinks desperately, her ears beginning to buzz, _he's going to kill me like he did Father._

 

“Since you came south to be wedded and bedded, you shall be. Though instead of the King, you will be wed to his dog.”

 

For a moment, no one speaks. Instead, Joffrey watches Sansa, grinning in anticipation of her reaction. The crowd at her back has gone completely silent. Not a single whisper emerges through their shock as as the eldest Stark daughter is given to the second son of a minor lording that isn't even a _knight_.

 

Her eyes turn to the Hound. A new white cloak adorns his broad shoulders, replacing the one he left Sansa on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. He stands, as always, at the foot of the throne. His eyes are as wide and shocked as Sansa's, his mouth parted as he attempts to absorb what he has just heard.

 

Twisting, cloak swirling and armor clanking, he barks, “The fuck did you just say?” Then, grudgingly, he spits out, “ _Your Grace_.”

 

Joffrey – who has an inordinate amount of fondness for this scarred, brutal, and brutally honest man that has always done his best to shield Sansa from the very worst of the King's violence and rages – bursts into laughter. The queen swells like an angry bullfrog and Lord Tywin's entire head has turned the color of his crimson doublet, but Joffrey is laughing so hard he's got an arm around his stomach. He bends so far that his crown comes close to falling off, and the whole time Sansa watches, lightheaded and strangely … hopeful.

 

As his laughter winds down, Joffrey stands, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes. He makes short work of the steps leading down from the throne, and soon has his hands tucked behind his back while he circles his _faithful_ servant.

 

“Did you think I never saw?” he asks, voice low enough that only the nearest courtiers – including Sansa, and the King's small council – will hear him. But that is enough, Sansa knows; soon his words will spread across the whole of Westeros. “How you watch her. How you skulk after her like the _dog_ you are. It is _pathetic._ Your actions at the Battle of the Blackwater disappointed me, dog; in truth, they were as pathetic as the way you lust for the Stark girl. The only explanation is that her traitor's blood has infected you. Well, here is the cure. You'll take this northern whore in hand and see her for what she truly is.” Joffrey appears positively _thrilled_ with the idea – so much so that his eyes have gone fever bright, his cheeks flushed and his breathing rapid.

 

Sansa knows little about the marriage bed, but she knows this look. Joffrey wears it when he has his Kingsguard beat her, when he is cruel and she cries; most especially when she _bleeds_. He thinks the Hound will hurt her, Sansa realizes, perhaps badly enough to kill her.

 

He has no idea how _wrong_ he is, and while Sansa is suddenly gulping back tears, she knows they won't be seen for what they are. Relief and joy and thanks, to both the old gods and the new. She will not be a princess or a queen, and her husband will be crude and rough and drunk … but he won't hurt her. Not like Joffrey and his knights would.

 

The Hound looks to Sansa, mouth so tight she imagines she can hear his teeth grinding together. He is angry, _so angry_ , and she wants to reach out to him and gentle his rage. She wants to tell him how happy she is, how _thankful_ ; he is not the knight of her childhood dreams, but that is a good thing, she thinks.

 

“What say you, Hound? Are you pleased with my gift?” Joffrey smirks up at massive man. “You'll be removed from the Kingsguard, of course, but you never did take your vows. I don't suppose it will matter much.”

 

“As Your Grace commands,” the Hound finally says. His eyes are on Sansa, and she can hear his voice in her mind – _bugger this little fucker, he's out of his mind_ – and just _thinking_ of those words makes her face go up in a blush so hot and bright she wonders if her skin will burn away.

 

Rounding on her, Joffrey moves in, far too close for comfort. “And _you_ , Lady Sansa. Tell me of your pleasure for this match I've made for you.”

 

Fighting back the urge to flinch away, she curtsies, keeping her head bowed. He mustn’t see her true feelings. Anything that brings her even the slightest glimmer of happiness is nothing His Royal Highness wants. “I am well pleased so long as Your Grace is happy,” she murmurs, a little bird singing from her gilded cage – and _just_ this close to finally escaping.

 

“Stupid girl,” Joffrey whispers, his words for Sansa alone. “He's going to rip you apart. I think I may watch him bed you the first time; in fact, I may have you after.”

 

Joffrey laughs his way back onto the Iron Throne, eyes once again wet with tears of amusement.

 

 

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Tywin Lannister is not a kind man, so this is not the reason that Sandor Clegane goes to him on the evening his betrothal is announced before the court. No, he seeks an audience with the Hand of the King for the simple reason that the man is both pragmatic and power-hungry; if there is any way Sansa Stark can be saved from marriage to a landless, title-less brute of a warrior, it is through Tywin's desire to keep her an easily accessible pawn in this game he plays so well.

 

“Clegane,” the Hand greets with dispassion. Unfurling a hand in the direction of a chair, he watches Sandor with unreadable eyes as his man-at-arms bows before taking a seat. He pours two generous goblets of wine, passing one to Sandor, before reclaiming his own chair; it is as straight, hard, and unyielding as the man himself.

 

“I suppose you have come to discuss Joffrey's latest folly,” says the Lord of Casterly Rock, his green eyes unblinking as they dissect Sandor.

 

“Aye,” Sandor confirms, the ruined side of his mouth twitching hard as he fights back a snarl of rage. Strong fingers tighten on the goblet, and it is only a supreme act of will that keeps him from hurling it across the room in a show of rage.

 

In the hours since the announcement had been made, Sandor has hardly been able to _breathe_ past his wrath. If the boy were not the king, if Sandor did not know that doing so would sentence his little bird to death, he would have torn Joffrey limb from limb in front of the entire court. In truth he still aches for it; he longs to feel the cruel bastard's blood hot and slick across his face as he his sword clean through the boy and spills out his guts.

 

He can imagine the look on the boy king's face as his faithful Hound betrays him. As well as the wails of that cunt Cersei. Few things could bring him greater joy.

 

“When the unwashed masses revolted and attacked on the day little Myrcella was sent to Dorne, you saved the girl.” Tywin speaks with the same precision that he always does, head tipped ever so slightly as he studies Sandor.

 

Scowling, Sandor downs the rest of his wine. At a gesture from the Hand, he refills the goblet, fighting hard not to shout. “Aye,” he finally answers tersely. “Someone had to.”

 

“Tyrion ordered your then remaining brothers of the Kingsguard to go out and find her. They refused, claiming their orders came only from the king; Joffrey refused as well, out of spite. Or so Tyrion tells me. And yet you were already outside the gates of the Red Keep, hunting her down. An intelligent move, on your part; had Joffrey's negligence allowed the Lady Sansa to be ruined as the Stokeworth girl was, her value would have been diminished. Not that it matters now.” Tywin drinks, still watching his family's well-trained Hound.

 

Again Sandor's self-control is tested; spitting in Twyin Lannister's face would _not_ aid his cause at all.

 

“The Kingsguard guards the royal family,” he rasps instead, “at the time the girl was Joffrey's betrothed. I did my duty, nothing more.”

 

“Mm,” Lord Tywin answers wordlessly, eyebrow lifting in the imperious way only high lords and royalty can manage. “That is how it appears, doesn't it? And yet...the Spider and I spoke at length in regards to Joffrey's plan to wed you and Lady Sansa. He informed me that you have many times done what you could for the child in the face of my grandson's humiliation of her. More than that, he claims that you have, quietly and privately, attempted to guide the girl in the best way to handle both her position at court as well as Joffrey. Wisely, he said; I believe his exact words were, 'he told the sweet Lady Sansa to sing brightly and prettily in her gilded cage.' I could be wrong, however; when the good Lord Varys finds it in him to wax poetic over his whispers, I have a habit of imagining cutting out his tongue as his cock was cut off, and enjoying the silence.” Tywin's smile is small, merciless, and only faintly amused.

 

He does not wait for Sandor to reply before continuing on. “It was even brought to my attention that when the girl flowered for the first time – panicking so badly that she attempted cut the stain from her mattress – it was _you_ who calmed her and brought her to the Queen. A fact that I find most interesting. You see, Clegane, Varys believes the Hound has fallen in love with this Stark girl. Or is infatuated, at least. I found the notion ridiculous, and told our Lord Spider as much. And do you know what he said? 'I could be wrong, of course, but if that fearsome dog comes to speak to you, attempting to snarl and bite his way out of a marriage that would be _most_ fortunate for a man of his position and holdings, then I do believe you will have the answer for yourself.' Just as Varys predicted, Clegane, you have given me an answer indeed.”

 

Rage and something quite close to fear makes Sandor hum with tension, a buzzing in his ears briefly deafening him to anything else. He knocks back the remaining wine, a much better vintage than he used to although it is utterly wasted on him. He cannot even taste it in his current state.All he can do is glower back at the high lord whom he serves, furious and utterly unable to do _anything_.

 

“If you believe that whoreson eunuch, then you're getting soft in your old age,” he snarls. “I've been your man for more than half my life, my lord, and I should think you would know me better than to believe me stupid enough to – love,” he sneers, “useless trash.” It isn't a lie. The romantic drivel the bards praise is useless claptrap. A mummers show made up of tin crowns, built with magic that is nothing more than clever little tricks and sleight of hand.

 

He does not love Sansa Stark. He _rages_ for her. For all that he has allowed to happen to her After all the evil he has done in his life, she is the _one thing_ he must protect.

 

“ _Love_. I would sooner eat shit and call it a feast before I would sink to such idiocy.”

 

A rare sight: Tywin Lannister laughs, eyes crinkling and mouth curling as the unexpected mirth is thrown forward. The sound is short-lived, and though he doesn't smile afterward, there is something amused and mocking in his eyes. “And yet here you are, which does lend some credence to the Spider's words.”

 

“The buggering hell am I supposed to do with a wife? Much less a highborn one?” Barking out the words in _absolute_ frustration, Sandor's palms itch and ache to wrap around any available throat and _squeeze_. “I will end up breaking the child before she can be of any use to me.”

 

A lax shrug lifts the lord's shoulders. “Your brother has had three wives, now. Or four, I may have lost count. There is little point in keeping track. Take the wealth and titles the Stark girl affords you, and if she does end up broken, find another more to your liking. Or not.”

 

Bile bubbles in the back of his throat. _Your brother has had three wives, now_ – aye, and those poor highborn cunts are all dead. He can _clearly_ imagine the horrors they experienced before death, and it makes Sandor too ill to think of them. Now when he thinks of Gregor's wives, each and every one of them a different version of his precious and fragile Sansa Stark. He imagines the torture and pain and indignities. A girl like his little bird would be ripped to pieces, crushed beyond recognition. Imagining that, he comes far too close to vomiting across his Lord's table.

 

“What Joffrey needs is to be strapped bloody, until he realizes it is in his best interest to obey his elders. In lieu of this – ” here Tywin frowns. “ – we give in to a few of his desires to get what we _truly_ need. I need him not only to marry the Tyrell whore, but to rein in his less becoming impulses. To keep him from harming her until she is well wedded, bedded, and has given the kingdom an heir. Your marriage to the Stark girl is one way I will appease him, and my mind will not be changed, Clegane. Do not bother with trying.”

 

He nods, obedient above his skin, roiling with fierce rage and a kingdom crumbling disgust underneath. “As my lord commands,” Sandor intones, just ashe has on too many occasions to count.

 

“Think of it this way,” Tywin adds as Sandor stands to leave. “If Joffrey's treatment of the girl has displeased you, at least now you will be able to offer her some measure of protection.”

 

Tywin Lannister is not a kind man. This is not why Sandor had come to him. However, he does remember when the Lady Joanna had died, and how Sandor's late father had hung his head and sighed.

 

“It may be our sweet Lady Joanna they're putting in the ground,” Father had said, “but it is Lord Tywin's heart that died.” Sandor remembers this and hears an echo of the widower's words – _at least now you will be able to offer her some measure of protection_ – and thinks maybe, just _maybe_ , the cold son of a bitch understands. At least in some way.

 

“Some measure of protection,” he repeats scathingly, one hand on the door latch. “Doesn't matter if she married you instead of me, Lord Tywin; she'll never be safe so long as she's in King's Landing. Good evening, my lord.”

 

\----X----

 

 

Shae comes _too close_ to pulling a knife on Sansa's future husband when the Hound – _Sandor_ , she thinks, ashamed that she must make these mental reminders, _his name is Sandor_ – enters her room following a quick knock. Ignoring courtesy as he always does, Sandor does not wait to be invited. Her maid is breathing like a winded bull, eyes bright and truly fierce, as she tries to block him from entering the small bedchamber.

 

“What do you think I'm going to do, woman, fuck her?” Clegane growls, the ruined side of his face twisted as he bares his teeth. “I'll be having her maidenhead in a fortnight, anyway, so _get out of my bloody way_.”

 

“She is a little girl!” Shae hisses, jabbing a finger angrily at the not-a-ser that Sansa has grown so terribly fond of. “And the king may yet change his mind. Now get out!”

 

“I need to speak with her.”

 

“Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, when she can be properly chaperoned.”

 

“Seven bloody hells, you buggering bitch, I will throw you out this gods damned window if –”

 

“ _Enough_.” A lady does not shout, and Sansa always does her best to be a lady. Instead she attempts to mimic the snapping whip of her mother's voice when she had growntired of listening to Sansa and Arya bickering (gods, what she wouldn't give to fight with her stubborn little sister again), or when the boys had grown too rowdy. Her voice isn't as terrifying as Mother's had been, but it is close enough that the eyes of both her betrothed – _I'm looking at my husband_ _!_ – and her maid snap to her.

 

Shoulders pulled back and hands curled gracefully in front of her, Sansa takes a step forward. “Shae, wait outside. As it happens, I wish to speak to my lord, as well.”

 

Though her eyes and scowl are utterly mutinous, Shae gives a truly messy curtsy before stomping out of the room. She doesn't slam the door behind her, but only because she has no desire to draw attention to her lady.

 

“She's very protective of me,” Sansa hears herself explaining once the door is shut, gesturing weakly. Is she blushing? It feels as though she is; gods, sometimes she thinks she really _is_ as stupid as Joffrey and the Queen claim. “The way...the way Joffrey is to me, how he has the Kingsguard...what he makes them do...she doesn't want to see me hurt.”

 

“I suppose you'll be wanting to keep her.” Clegane sighs. Through his exasperation, Sansa notes a sort of approval in his eyes. “Sit down, little bird. We need to speak.”

 

She successfully resists the urge to scamper to the nearest chair. The subject of Ser Dontos and their meetings in the godswood, his promises to be her Florian and take her away weigh heavy on Sansa's mind. The knight turned fool had done nothing to truly aid her in all the time they have been meeting, and she has now decided to tell him that she wishes to obey King Joffrey and marry. The worry that Dontos may resist her choice is a pervasive one, however, making Sansa pull up her courage so she can explain Ser Dontos's plot, and ask Sandor for advice on freeing herself from it.

 

Her husband-to-be is exceedingly clever, his mind as sharp as his sword blade, though few have noticed it. That in combination with all his many efforts to aid and assist Sansa over her time in King's Landing reassures her that he help her find the correct path.

 

Oh, the Hound is not kind to her in ways she'd once _thought_ were kindness – in truth, he can be hateful and incredibly crude – but he has always given her nothing but the truth. It is a rare gift for _anyone_ to be truthful at court, Sansa is learning. More than that, he is gentle. Roughly so, which is odd and contradicting, but it makes sense in a way that is unique to this man, and Sansa likes it.

 

After the Blackwater, when he'd come to her in the night and asked to take her away – Sansa had wanted to go. She _had_. But the Queen's men would have found them. They would be drug back to King's Landing and _thrown_ before Joffrey...oh, Sansa couldn't have endured to see him beheaded as her father was. She knows they would have made her watch. And after...they wouldn't have killed her. Not at first. Joffrey would have kept her, a toy to be used and discarded at his whim. He would _hurt_ her, more than he ever had, and that would be worse than death.

 

So she had sung Clegane the Mother's Hymn, humbled and awed and so very _sad_ when tears ran down this brutal but terrified man's cheeks. After, as she'd wiped away the blood and tears and soot, she'd quietly begged, “ _Fight_ , my lord. Please. They'll kill us if we run, you know they will. If Stannis wins … Ilyn Payne has been ordered by the Queen to take off my head. She won't let Stannis take me alive. I am … I am sorry to ask, but I … I don't want to die.” More tears had come, burning Sansa's already raw eyes.

 

He had kissed her. Quick and hard, his lips on her own, his tongue brushing across her lower lip and making Sansa shudder even while her knees had threatened to turn to jelly. He had then left without a word, and it was only later that Sansa had learned he _had_ obeyed her request, bursting back into battle with a ferocity the Hound had rarely shown before.

 

It is the only reason he hadn't been executed as a traitor.

 

“If it wasn't for Clegane, the Mud Gate may well have been breached,” Tywin Lannister had said to Cersei during a private, 'family' dinner; Joffrey and his little brother, Cersei and Twyin...and Sansa, who had been only days away from (thankfully) being replaced by Margaery Tyrell.

 

Since that night, since he had _stayed_ and _fought_ on Sansa's behalf alone, her feelings towards him have been...difficult to define. He is no knight, but now she remembers that her father had not been a knight, either. Ned Stark had been the most honorable, respectful, kind, generous, and gentle man Sansa had ever known, and no _ser_ had come before his name; in this Clegane is like her father, and that is a nice thought. He is honorable in his own way, though he would probably become apoplectic with rage if she told him so.

 

“I am sorry, little bird.” His words draw Sansa's attention. When she looks up, she finds him glaring a hole into the wall above her head. He looks out of place and uncomfortable in her room, awkwardly perched on the frilly little chair that looks like a toy. When he finally returns her gaze, he appears almost as defeated as he is angry. “Lord Twyin refused to change Joffrey's mind.”

 

“You...went to Lord Twyin? You asked him to break our betrothal?” To her own ears, Sansa's voice is terribly weak, a china cup cracked, though not yet fully fractured. Something in her ribs aches horrible.

 

“Stupid girl,” Sandor snaps hatefully, big hands balling into _huge_ fists. “Of course I did.”

 

Tears come. Her despair is almostas thick and choking as when she had seen her father's murder. She had been so _pleased_ at the thought of marrying Sandor Clegane; oh, the little girl she had once been would be _horrified_ , but the woman Sansa is becoming … she treasures the thought of safety. Her parents marriage had been arranged. She had thought that maybe, in time, she and her husband could become what Ned and Catelyn Stark had been: devoted, loyal, adoring, passionately in love. Now she hears this, and it is yet another beautiful dream cruelly shattered.

 

“You don't want me?” Despite Sansa's best efforts, a tear escapes, rolling down her nose before dripping off. It lands on her hand, which clutches its counterpart in her lap. The dam breaks.Tear after tear spills free, and sobs strangle her. Sansa abandons her flawless posture to curl her shoulders, and buries her face in her hands.

 

What she does not see is this: Sandor Clegane, mouth agape, with hands outstretched and hovering in mid-air. Horror widens and fills his eyes, as well as disbelief at what he sees and cannot fully comprehend. “Stop crying,” he orders desperately. 

 

Her sobs are small and gut wrenching, more childlike than either of them would care to admit.

 

“No buggering crying!” he roughly begs.

 

His chair bounces off the floor, toppling as he stands. One step takes him around the little table, and a half step more brings him in front of Sansa. She looks up when he takes her hands in one of his own, but with such gentleness that it only makes her want to cry _harder_.

 

Crouching down in front of her, hunching his shoulders and back so they are on eye-level. It is a first, given how utterly _massive_ Clegane is. His free hand takes Sansa's chin and forces her to look at him. Not in anger, not to make her face his scars, but to _see_ him.

 

“There isn't a man alive that wouldn't want a sweet little bird like you for a wife,” he says in an even deeper rasp than usual. Though his face is forever trapped in the dusk ofa nightmare, and though he is still crude and rude and mean, Sansa finds him rather handsome in his own strange, rough way. “But you deserve much better than a dog like me, girl. Do you understand? You deserve _so_ _much_ _ **better**_.”

 

“A prince?” she asks, turning her hands in his grasp, clinging to his thick fingers and wide wrist. “To become a queen? I wanted that once, my lord. I received that wish, and found the songs are not as sweet as I was led to believe. I was humiliated, beaten, bloodied, stripped before the entire court; that is the life of a queen-to-be, and I _do not_ want it. I want to be safe, my lord. I feel I am with you. You said yourself, you will not lie to me, and you have always been as kind as you possibly could. You're the only one who tried to make me see what Joffrey, the court, and this life really _is_.”

 

“I am no knight from one of your fucking stories, _my lady_.”

 

Realization dawns, bright and heady for Sansa. Sandor'sanger is how he protects himself, a protective shield that is much the same as her courtesies.

 

“My father was no knight,” she answers gravely. “He was the best man I've ever known.”

 

For a moment Clegane only watches her, lips parted, the burned side of his mouth twitching. He whispers, “Little bird,” and it is an endearment to Sansa's ears. He releases her chin to wipe the wetness from her cheeks with rough fingertips … and he is as gentle as he knows how to be. “I'm going to do everything I can to keep you safe.”

 

“I know,” she answers. It may only be the firelight from the room's tiny hearth, but it almost looks as though the Hound has tears in his eyes.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll just leave this here...
> 
> Beta'ed by Manniness, who is just...ugh. I don't even have words for her perfection.

Stripped of the white and cloak the duties that go with it, Sandor sinks into the wine soaked and whore infested pits of King's Landing. He spends three days drinking, fighting, and fucking (red haired whores, fucking them too hard while hissing _my pretty little bird,_ _ **sing**_ _for me_ ), and he has _no_ idea of when or how he and returned to the Red Keep.

 

He wakes smelling as though he rolled in a gutter, which he admittedly maybe have done. Head throbbing, stomach rolling, and extremities trembling, Sandor drags himself to the bathhouse. The heat makes him vomit, which helps clear his head, and he scrubs hard with cheap soap.

 

“Fucking worthless dog,” he snarls at himself, attempting to wash dried vomit from his dark hair, “you're not even worthy to _look_ at her. You dirty, buggering whoreson.”

 

_I want to be safe, my lord. I feel I am with you._

 

Sandor drops back into the hot water. He closes his eyes, and considers never coming up for air. No matter how much wine he had drunk, Sansa's words had stayed with him. Her tears had unmanned him. Her level, serious expression as she gazed upon him without so much as a flinch with his hideous face so close to her own left him in awe. But it was her words( _I want to be safe, my lord. I feel I am with you_ and _you have always been as kind as you possibly could_ and most especially _my father was no knight. He was the best man I've ever known_ ) near killed him.

 

And yet he does not die. He lives, and he will be wed Sansa Stark, yes, but how is he going to shield her from the fucking Lannisters? How in the bloody buggering hell is he supposed to place his cloak around her childish shoulders and draw her into his bed, fuck her as he longs to and _refuses_ to consider because she's _only a little girl_? After he taking her maidenhead, how will he look her in the eye again, knowing he has ruined her for the life she deserves? How is _any_ of this going to happen?

 

He was made for war, not for marriage. This will kill him, Sandor is sure of it.

 

Clean and in fresh clothing, Sandor exits the bathhouse to find that fiery maid of Sansa's awaiting him. A Lannister man is limping away, tossing evil looks over his shoulder; Sandor thinks he sees blood dripping down his fingers, and he doesn't bother to bite back a laugh.

 

“Did you stab him?” he asks, jerking his chin towards the sullen, retreating solider.

 

“I only cut him a little. Still he practically cries for his mother; what a pussy.” She's a brazen thing, meeting his gaze and thrusting out her chin, with her arms folded under her breasts as she stares him down.

 

Sandor is suddenly glad she's with his little bird. This woman will put up a hell of a fight to protect Sansa Stark, and she has always attempted to protect the girl as best she could. He knows she threatened one of Sansa's bedmaids with a knife when her moonblood had came, and he'd honestly thought she might attempt to slit his throat the moment he realized that Sansa had flowered.

 

Seven hells, he still can't think of that morning without his gut rolling. Sandor has seen more blood than Sansa could ever bleed out in her entire life, but her bloody nightgown and sheets, _fuck_ , that had nearly ended him. Standing over that mattress, listening to his little bird weep as though she were being killed, all Sandor could imagine was Joffrey rutting on top of her. Hurting her, cutting her, hitting her; planting his bastard seed in her sweet womb, and making her birth his horrid bastard spawn.

 

“Come with me, Hound.” The maid's accented words break Sandor from his unwelcome memories.

 

He almost balks – a dog he may be, although he doesn't take his orders from maids – but with a sigh he follows. Head still aching, Sandor simply doesn't have it in him to fight at the moment. At least not with words. Give him a blade, or even just his fists, and he'd gladly kill as many men as would dare to face him.

 

The woman leads him to the godswood. Sunlight falls through the leaves, dappling the ground in pretty patterns, and he can't help but notice that this woman _is_ beautiful. Dark and ripe and alluring, and Sandor thinks how easy it would be to want her. To _fuck_ her. Not too long ago he would have; but her hair is not red, her skin not as pale as crushed pearls, her eyes are not so blue and precious that his heart seizes when she looks at him for too long...

 

“My lady is a sweet, innocent maid. This whole fucking court and city have tried to ruin her, as though they hate a little girl for _being_ a little girl. That son of a bitch that sits on your Iron Throne, he hurts her because he likes it; you guard him, so you know. Did you see the whores Lord Tyrion sent him? Have you heard what he made them do?”

 

Teeth bared in an ugly smile, Sandor leans forward. “Saw them? Woman, I stood outside that door and _listened_. When it was over, I carried the whore to the Lord Imp to show him what Joffrey did to his gift. I've killed men, women, and children. But even _I_ have done nothing so brutal as filthy as the boy had done.” All he says is true. In all the wars and riots and fights just for the fucking fun of it, in all the sins he has committed and will commit again, he's seen few things as terrible as that whore Joffrey had torn the woman open for his amusement.

 

Not so deep down, it scares him. The things Joffrey would like to do to Sansa...

 

“Then you know she's not safe, here. Your king, he might be marrying another, but he'll use her. Even if she becomes your lady wife. The boy will call for her, and if you deny him, you will be punished. Possibly killed. And he will take my lady Sansa and hurt her. If the gods are true, he will kill her. Because I don't want her to live through what he would do, I wouldn't wish it upon even the people I hate.” Tears glint in those fierce black eyes, making them shine in the mid-morning sunlight.

 

Fists clenched tightly at his sides, Sandor has to breathe deeply to keep from roaring. “What is the point of this, woman? I know better than _anyone_ how at risk your lady is.”

 

She approaches inch by inch, until he can feel her heat and smell the strange spice of her scent. Thrusting her chin up, she doesn't even pale when so closely faced with the ruins of his face. “I've seen the way you look at her, how you follow her and try to help her. You care for her, and I do as well. We both very much want to see this girl made safe, and that, I think, makes us allies.”

 

Saying nothing, Sandor waits, as stoic as he has forced himself to be so many times when standing before the Iron Throne.

 

“I have a friend who is very rich and powerful, and closely connected to Lord Tywin. If through him I can arrange for you and Sansa to be given an escape from this place after the wedding, will you take it?”

 

If she were anyone else, Sandor would bash her skull in and be done with it. Courtly intrigues and mysteries have never interested him, and he wants no part in them now. But he has watched for long months as this maid has grown closer and closer to his little bird; becoming one part sister and another part mother.

 

“Aye,” he finally answers, nodding. “I don't have any idea how you could, but aye. You find a way for us to leave without the king coming after her, and I'll take her away.”

 

Quick as a snake, the woman has Sandor's hands in her own. When she smiles, she is even more beautiful than before. She cannot be _that_ much older than his little bird, but in experience she is ancient compared to Sansa, who has been brutalized but is still so innocent that he fears to touch her.

 

The woman's smile is bright and sweet, and her mouth is wet as it brushes his jawline in a sweetly chaste kiss of thanks and joy. “I am Shae,” she says, beaming. “And I'm going to help you protect her from now on.”

 

 

\----X----

 

 

A week after the announcement, and a week before the wedding, Sandor knocks at the door Sansa Stark so often hides behind in an effort to avoid the cruelties of her captors. Shae opens it, which is no surprise. Behind her are several fluttering, twittering bedmaids. They belong to the queen herself, placed with Sansa only to spy on the little bird.

 

“I need to speak with Lady Sansa.” The words come out stiffly; as with anything that involves his little bird, Sandor would much rather not have an audience. The badly stifled shrieks and giggles of the bedmaids grate on his nerves, but Sansa crosses the room, beaming as though she's been given a gift of gold and jewels. It steals his breath and weakens his knees.

 

A fourteen year old girl has stolen his strength. Who could have possibly imagined this?

 

“Shhh,” she quietly orders the twittering women, waving a hand in an attempt to bring silence. Then her smile is aimed at Sandor once more, bright and sweet and so innocent it makes Sandor's heart throb. “My lord, I am pleased to see you.”

 

“I'm not a lord,” he grumbles, irritated and out of place and so fucking _ready_ to be rid of these stupid, giggling wenches.

 

Sansa blinks big, blue eyes and laughs. “Not yet,” she admits.

 

“The King has summoned us. We're to go to him immediately.”

 

Paling, Sansa sways, quickly clutching the door to steady herself. Shae is quickly at her side, squeezing her arm and whispering in her ear. Whatever she says makes the girl nod. A faint smile graces Sansa's lips as she touches her maid's hand in gratitude. “Of course, my lord. As always, I am at the King's disposal.”

 

She takes his arm, her little handcurling in the crook of his elbow, and Sandor feels like a gods damned aurochs at her side. Already tall for a woman, she is still so much _smaller_ than he is, gently bred and refined. It makes him want to curse, but he bites his tongue and stays silent.

 

“Do you know why we've been summoned?” she asks. Fear lurks in her eyes.

 

“No,” he answers shortly. No words of comfort are offered; Sandor knows they would most likely be lies.

 

Joffrey receives them in a private audience chamber off the throne room. It boasts a long table and chairs, and a ostentatiously gilded chair on a small dais. He perches there like a brightly colored carrion bird, a vulture with emerald eyes and blonde curls. Sandor quickly slips on an emotionless mask to protect he and the little bird.

 

“Your Grace,” he rasps, while Sansa says the same much more softly. He bows stiffly and she curtsies prettily at his side. As soon as the motion is complete her hand returns tohis arm. Unseen in the fabric of his tunic, her fingers cling desperately.

 

“Lady Sansa, you already look a blushing bride. Are you very eager to wed my dog?” Joffrey laughs. His eyes are bright, seeming almost manic in his enthusiasm.

 

Sansa blushes and bows her head. She smiles and keeps her eyes hidden under her lashes, though her grip has tightened to the point that Sandor is honestly shocked at the strength in her slender fingers. “I am, Your Grace. As you know, I have long looked forward to becoming a wife and mother. You were wise to give me to your Hound, as you are in all things.”

 

“I am wise, aren't I? I think you're growing smarter, Lady Sansa. _Finally_. Well, Clegane? Are you looking forward to the bedding?” Joffrey leers.

 

Sandor contents himself with imagining smashing the boy's nose into his skull before he strings him up and guts him. He's never had any use for torture, but for this boy...for this twisted little fuck who so delights in tormenting Sandor's little bird, oh yes, he would put Gregor to shame with the things he would do to Joffrey if given the chance.

 

“I don't imagine noble cunt is any different than a whore,” he says with a shrug. At his side, Sansa stiffens.

 

“Ha! You're right, Hound. One cunt is the same as any other. Beddings are important, though. _Very_ important. If you don't consummate the marriage, it can be annulled. I had thought I might watch, just to make sure it's done _properly_ –”

 

Sandor locks his knees to keep from bolting across the room and crushing the little shit's throat.

 

“Mother says it would be most unseemly, however. But I want to know it has all been properly done, dog.”

 

Sansa vibrates with tension.

 

“As I said, _Your Grace_ , one cunt is no different from any other. You know my nature.”

 

“Indeed I do, dog. But it pleases me to see this all done right, and so the sheet will be brought to _me_ the morning after, and not my mother. Moreover, Lady Sansa will be attended to by a septa, to prove her maiden's gift has been taken.” Smile as wide and dark as a shit stain, Joffrey chortles before propping his chin on one hand. “Try not to savage her _too_ badly on the first night, Hound. I wouldn't want to give a septa nightmares.”

 

Sansa is very nearly in tears by the time they reach her room. “How will...how will the septa prove I'm no longer a maiden? Will...will she have to...” It seems the girl cannot finish the thought. Instead she swallows hard, and Sandor honestly fears that she may faint.

 

“She will examine you,” he answers roughly, pushing open the door to her chamber. It is blessedly empty. He follows her inside, needing time to collect himself before going back into public.

 

Once the door is shut and bolted, he hisses, “Gods be damned,” before viciously slamming his left hand against the wall. There is a small cracking sound; perhaps a broken bone, or only a strain. This little pain is good, though, as it helpsto draw Sandor's focus and push the rage back down.

 

Sansa cowers beside her bed, twisting her hands together. “M-my lord?” she stutters, and for the first time since the night of the Blackwater, Sandor turns to find she cannot look him in the face.

 

He's _frightened_ her again, and it only serves to make him _ache_ for violence.

 

“I was going to leave you a maid,” he admits hoarsely, moving to the foot of her bed. He sits heavily on a wide wooden chest, rubbing a hand over his face. Calluses catch on his scars and coarse stubble, and quite suddenly he is so weary that even his bones hurt. “After a few years, I thought you could seek an annulment. Mayhaps you could find a knight or highborn lord, and make a proper marriage.”

 

A sharply indrawn breath draws his gaze. Sansa has gone terribly still, and is pale as death once more. “Don't...don't you want me?” she asks for the second time, lips trembling. “I mean as a – as a man wants a woman – I-I know I'm not very … _round_ … but I thought, maybe ...” Curling in on herself, Sansa appears positively heartbroken.

 

“You are a _child_.” This statement is made harshly, and with a cold sort of strength. “It doesn't matter if I want or not.”

 

“Is it because I'm not very pretty?” Timid and sad, Sansa blinks. Two fat tears roll down her cheeks.

 

Suddenly, it is all _too much_. Therage, sadness, and fear. His yearnings to do the honorable thing by this one girl. His lust for her body and mind and soul. Most especially the urges he chokes down, the ones he's never had before doesn't understand now:

 

The desire to wake up with Sansa's head on his chest.

 

A longing to hold red haired babes, fragile little lives safe in his huge hands.

 

To worry over pretty daughters and sturdy sons.

 

The need to become a man who deserve these things, it all combines and Sandor snaps like a bow string pulled too tightly. With a snarl he is across the room. His hands wrap tight around Sansa's waist, lifting her feet from the floor to press her against the wall.

 

She is gasping and gaping up at him, eyes wide and shocked and so fucking blue it hurts. Sandor leans into her, nudges her knees apart to settle between soft thighs. He curses the fabric of her skirts, which are thick between them. Tangling a hand in her hair, Sandor curls his fingers into the thick mass and _forces_ her too keep her head tipped up, to make her look at him.

 

“You ignorant fucking girl – you want to know if I want you? If you're _pretty_ enough for me?” A ragged inhale, and Sandor becomes lightheaded from the scent of her. “Thoughtsof you keep me awake at night, and before I can sleep I have to fuck my fist and think of you. Your hair and mouth and high, pretty teats; I buy whores with red hair and take them from behind, because with their hair and white skin I can pretend it's you I'm fucking raw and gods be damned, just the _thought_ is so good I'm turned into a green boy again. I want your mouth and hands and teats and cunt; I want to fuck you so hard and deep you'll always have a part of me in you, _always._ I want to make you _beg_ for me, cry and plead and sing your pretty little songs until I've driven you as mad with wanting as I am. I'll drink from that sweet little cunt, drink until you drown me and you've lost your voice from pleasure, and then I'll plant my seed in you and watch you swell with my child. And then everyone will know, _Lady Sansa_ , know that behind closed doors you open your legs and ask for me.” Winded from the release of these words, from the power they have over him and the images they bring to mind. Aching and only _just_ clinging to restraint as he pins Sansa to the wall, he comes to know the feel of her chest heaving against his ribs.

 

He's said too much. But she had pushed too far, and he has been tempted far longer than she knows. Joffrey's orders and taunts, Sansa's innocence and smiles and happiness upon seeinghim, Sandor's long unseen desire to be a _good man_ ; all of these things and more leave cracks and holes in the sturdy fortress he places between himself and the world.

 

“Oh,” she says, and it is a soft, breathless noise. It makes shame rise in his chest even as his cock throbs. Seven hells he can imagine her making that same little sound as he slides his fingers up her thigh for the first time. So focused on trying to make his fingers release Sansa, an animal growl ekes out before Sandor can contain it.

 

But then, like a gods damned miracle or a line from one of her buggering songs, soft hands are cupping his face. Both sides, ruined and plain, are caressed. Her thumbs rest beside his mouth, and long fingers are cool and tender as they stretch up into his hair to whisper like warm sunlight over his terrible scars. Sansa smiles gently, and Sandor forgets how to breathe because no one – _no one –_ has ever looked at him this way.

 

She kisses him with damp lips and a youth's artlessness. Her lips remain closed but she is humming behind them, a soft noise of happiness that Sandor wants to take into his own body, to pull inside and keep in his chest like a gentle fire to warm him when the winter of his pain and rage becomes too much.

 

“There will be no annulment,” she serenely informs him with her feet nearly a foot from the floor and her arms now wound about his neck. “I wouldn't want one, even if you didn't take my maidenhead. We're going to be very happy, my lord, as my parents were. They didn't know each other at all before they were wed, but love came. We will be the same.”

 

Stunned, he lowers Sansa to her feet. She pats his face and chest reassuringly, sliding away to twitch her skirts, removing the wrinkles. Sandor tracks her movements, stricken silent as she makes her way to a little desk.

 

“Could you do something for me?” she asks. Shooting him a nervously hopeful smile over one shoulder, Sansa a seat.

 

“Aye,” he assures her gruffly. At this moment, she could ask him to run Joffrey through in front of the entire court, and he would gladly do so.

 

“If I write a letter to my mother, will you send it for me? I'm watched, you know, and not allowed to send anything...but I would like her to know I'm to be wed. But only if it won't get you in trouble,” she rushes to add, flushing.

 

“Write your letter,” he tells her. Moving to a too-small chair at her little table, he hopes she doesn't notice the fine tremor of his fingers and the weakness of his usually strong legs. “I'll see it sent.”

 

She says, “Thank you,” before blinking at him as though she's been caught doing something terribly naughty. Her face flames, nearly as red as her hair, but she squares her shoulders and stiffens her back. “Thank you, _Sandor_.” Sansa appears impossibly pleased and thrilled, grinning widely at him before turning back to parchment, quill, and ink.

 

Dazed, Sandor watches the sunlight on her hair and the way she wrinkles her nose and bites at her lip while thinking. He wondersat his blessings, and the price he will have to pay for them.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Four days before her wedding, the Queen summons Sansa.

 

As pleased as she is at the thought of marrying Sandor Clegane – a _baffling_ thought, when she thinks of how she had once feared him (but that was before she had learned that monsters are often golden and pretty, all the better to lure in little girls) – Sansa has been teetering on the brink of an almost hysterical terror since the decree had been given. If Joffrey should ever suspect that she is looking forward to life as Lady Clegane, the most well-protected woman in all of Westeros, she _knows_ he will take this unintentional gift away. Joffrey craves Sansa's fear, not her happiness.

 

“Lady Sansa, Your Grace,” Ser Osmund Kettleblack announces, stepping aside and holding the door to the Queen's sitting room open for Sansa. He had spoke at length to her on their way to the Queen; asking about the details of the wedding, gently teasing her about the bedding and laughing at her rosy blushes, even giving her a short but kindly intentioned review of Sandor's nature.

 

“He's a rough man, my lady, no denying it. But he is just and honorable in his own way; I imagine that as your husband, he will respect and honor you well.”

 

Sansa had thought it so gallant that she had squeezed his arm, delighted that despite Sandor's fearsome reputation, others had seen the bits and pieces of goodness in him that she now does. Of course, this is not something Queen Cersei would ever attempt to understand.

 

“Thank you, Ser Osmund.” Cersei stands in front of large windows, the glass thrown open to allow the cool wind to sweep in off the water. She is tall, beautiful, and as imposing ever. She wears emeralds at her throat, in her hair, at her wrists. The shade is mimicked by her gown and her stunning eyes.

 

Walking forward, the Queen extends a hand. Once, Sansa might have thought her smile warm and welcoming. Now she clearly sees the ice in her eyes and has to fight back a chill. “Please sit, Sansa. Your dress is lovely, little dove, though I don't recall such fine embroidery on it before.”

 

Sansa answers quietly, “I worked the embroidery, Your Highness.”

 

“I shouldn't be surprised. You are a girl of many talents, are you not?” Cersei's smile is sharp and mocking. She pours two glasses of wine, sitting one in front of Sansa before taking a seat for herself. She is so close that when she crosses her legs, her foot bumps Sansa's knee. “Tell me, child, does being the betrothed of a dog suit better than that of a prince?”

 

Bile burns hot and sour at the back of Sansa's throat. _Careful_ , she thinks, drawing in a short breath. _This is a double-edged sword_.

 

“I mourn that the acts of my traitorous family tore me from the King, though I know that for the good of the kingdom and his own happiness he must have a queen worthy of him, and I am not. However,I am honored that he made a match for me, Your Grace, and will do everything I can to be a loyal and loving wife to my lord husband once we are wed – just as he is a loyal and loving servant to your family.” Sansa takes a sip of wine, knowing it will help ease her way with the Queen.

 

One sharp eyebrow arched up in what can only be amusement, possibly even mockery, the facade cracks and Cersei laughs. It is an ugly sound, though she cuts it off by taking a long pull from her glass. “Oh little dove, how you have learned to sing,” she chuckles, shaking her head. The light catches on her golden hair and it glows. “There is no need to lie to me on this account, girl; any woman would be unhappy to be wed to either Clegane. Be glad it is the Hound you've been given to and not the Mountain. His wives do not last very long, I fear, and you would go quicker than any of them, I'm sure. In this, you are lucky.”

 

A pause. The Queen watches Sansa, who laces her fingers tightly around her glass and shifts uncomfortably. Sea birds cry and scream from the harbor, and the salty wind also carries in the scent of the flowers that crawl up the side of Cersei's tower.

 

“I assume you know little about what happens in the marriage bed. I will tell you this now, and remember it well: it is _not_ magical. Women can have pleasure, yes, but I somehow doubt the Hound will bother with yours, so do not expect or ask for it. He will demand you that demean yourself, and you must, or he will hurt you. Do you understand, Sansa? This is no story or dream or song, you are being wedded to a man who can snap your neck with one hand, and if you deny him in the bedchamber he may well do so. It would be within his rights, as women are easily replaceable.” Scathing for a woman's role in the world drips from the Queen's words. “So give him what he wants, girl. _Whatever_ he wants, _however_ he wants it, _whenever_ he wants it.”

 

Sansa wants to cry. Is the Queen trying to scare her? Or is she speaking truthfully? She can't imagine Clegane – _Sandor_ , gods be good, she _must_ use his name more easily! – hurting her. Not like _that_. With his words, yes, as they are often barbed and offensive. But his touch is often reverent, and even when he _might_ have taken her by force, he had not.

 

Easily, her mind goes back to the riot. He had saved her from those brutes who wanted to hurt her for no other reason than she was a highborn girl at their mercy. She still has nightmares … that cold stone floor she had been pinned on – the sour reek of the old straw – the inescapable strength of their hands upon her limbs. The sound of her dress ripping – a chorus of rough laughter in response to her struggles – the whisper of breaches lacings being undone. Most especially she recalls the one between her thighs, the way he had rubbed his man thing against her before Sandor had pulled him away.

 

Sansa also remembers the rage in Sandor's eyes when she had first caught sight of him, and later the way he had banded an arm over the back of her legs to keep her over his shoulder. “We're almost to the Keep,” he had kept telling her. Sansa had cried and clung to him, while men had died trying to tear her from his grasp. “Hush, little bird, you're safe with me. You're safe.”

 

Looking back, Sansa realizes how utterly _shaken_ he had been when she was brought back to the Keep. She had heard it in the tremor at the edge of his words, his nervous movements as he had directed her maids, “Little bird's bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage. See to that cut.”

 

With these things in mind, Sansa _cannot_ believe that Cersei is correct.

 

“There it is,” the Queen says with a terrible sort of vicious pity. “I can see the understanding in those pretty, blue eyes. It is a woman's lot in life, Sansa, to be used by our men when they want us, and to stand aside when they desire something else. But I will tell you something more; you are maiden and a stupid little girl, but I am a woman grown. I know the way the Hound watches you when he thinks his master's eyes are averted. He wants you, girl, in all the ways a man can want a woman. So when he comes to your bed and takes his desires out on your body, do not just lie there and let him. Kiss his mouth, touch his face – yes, child, that ugly face you will wake to every morning for the rest of your life – kiss his scars, and smile for him. Tell him you love him. I doubt any woman has ever done such a thing, and if you do this, well, you may gain a woman's power over him.”

 

Revulsion washes over Sansa, thick and heavy. Cersei would have her build her marriage on a foundation of lies and a struggle for power. It makes her stomach revolt just _thinking_ of telling Sandor such a cruel lie as _I love you_ if she doesn't mean it.

 

The Queen can see how Sansa feels, that is clear. It is good for Sansa to appear unhappy with her marriage. The older woman clearly seems to it as disgust towards Sandor Clegane, and the thought of sharing his bed.

 

“Thank you for your advice, Your Grace,” Sansa mouths thickly, her voice hollow. “You are much wiser than I. I am glad that now I will know what to do.”

 

“I survived Robert,” Cersei tells her, draining the last of her wine. “You may yet survive Clegane. Come, now; you may be marrying a monster, but you will be a pretty little bride. The seamstress is waiting for us to try on your new dresses.”

 

 

\----X----

 

Not long after her meeting with the Queen Regent, Sansa is waylaid by Margaery Tyrell. Lurking near the near the courtyard where Sandor is training, Sansa is huddled behind a spear rack. She watches as Sandor practices, in awe of his strength and skill. She can't say _why_ the need to see him has come on her, but her conversation with Cersei had left Sansa feeling … unclean.

 

“Yoohoo, Sansa!” Margaery seems to materialize out of thin air to dart toward the shocked girl.The overly-loud greeting gains the attention of the men training in the yard.

 

Sandor turns, gaze quickly finding Sansa. His opponent attempts to take advantage of the Hound's distraction, lunging from the side with an upraised sword; Sandor casually whacks him across the throat with the flat of his blunt tourney blade, leaving the other man to collapse, choking and wheezing, at his feet.

 

Sweat drips from his hooked nose and has flattened his hair, Sandor narrows his eyes on Sansa. She does her best to melt into the stonework of the wall behind her, fails horribly, and suddenly finds herself arm-in-arm with a laughing Margaery. Dark curls and silk trailing along behind them as she pulls Sansa into the open.

 

“Sansa, darling, how adorable! You're actually watching him train!” Margaery is kind enough to keep her tone low enough so her words aren't carried out to the men in the yard, but Sansa would still very much like for a hole to open up and swallow her. “His face may not be much, but he _is_ quite fearsome. Oh, he's still watching us. Wave to him. Wave!”

 

Margaery waves excitedly. Sansa follows suit, wondering if death by blush is possible, or if she'll survive her embarrassment. She suspects death is possible. It certainly _feels_ eminent.

 

A few of the other men begin to jeer Sandor. Not loudly enough for Sansa to hear their words, but she can surmise the gist of it. Sandor turns very slowly, head tipped to one side as he eyes a particular Lannister guard who is having trouble speaking around his laughter. Another man points to the women on the sideline, makes a truly vulgar series of gestures involving some shameful and cringe-worthy (on Sansa's part, at least) thrusting, braying like a donkey.

 

“Oh dear, I think they've made him angry.” Margaery sounds positively pleased at this development. “My goodness, for such a large man he is _very_ quick.”

 

“Should we try to stop him?” Sansa asks worriedly, biting at her lower lip.

 

Shaking her head, the future queen appears amused. “No, darling, of course not. He's defending your honor, I'm sure...and showing off, at _least_ a bit. I've always liked watching my brothers and guards train. It's so interesting, seeing the men in their natural habitat. Mother's mercy, look at all that blood!”

 

“Don't kill him,” Sansa whispers, eyes round. “Don't kill him!” she begs louder, pressing a hand flat to her stomach. Oh, she wishes Margaery hadn't shouted and drawn their attention. Margaery pulls her away, though Sansa looks back several times to watch Sandor efficiently pulverize the guards who had mocked Sansa and Margaery.

 

The rest of the afternoon is spent pleasantly in the Tyrell overtaken portion of the Red Keep. Gossip is shared and too much wine is poured, leading to a pair of incredibly loosened tongues. Margaery insists that if Sansa is willing, her marriage may be a good one. Sansa knows she says too much when “I have high hopes for it.” passes her lips.

 

Margaery's eyes are far too sharp and keen, and Sansa squirms under the suddenly understanding gaze. She thinks a rain of questions must be coming, but instead the future queen directs their conversation to a mercifully different, though equally uncomfortable topic: children.

 

“A son learns from his mother, and I plan to teach mine much,” she says slyly, nibbling at fruit. “He will be a great king and a good man, like my brothers. Mayhap I'll find his queen from House Clegane, hmm, Sansa?”

 

Sansa chokes on her cider. Margaery laughs so hard she turns red and splatters fruit juice on her silk gown, which only serves to make her amusement grow. Their talk turns to lighter fare, clothing and wedding planning and how they both agree that autumn is nearly upon Westeros.

 

Margaery showers Sansa's cheeks in quick, happy kisses when their time draws to an end. She tucks a yellow rose behind Sansa's ear before allowing her to leave. Waving goodbye, framed by the afternoon sunlight with the sapphire sea at her back, the future queen is a picture of joyous beauty. Sansa's heart is warm, pleased that she has finally found a true and honest friend.

 

On arriving back at her room, Sansa sends Shae to bring up dinner for two. “Tonight we'll sup together, in private. I'm too relaxed to attend dinner in the small hall.”

 

After Shae has gone to fetch the food, Sansa falls onto her bed. Humming, she lazily plucking pins from her hair, allowing her elaborate up-do to topple. Thinking on Margaery's words regarding children makes her blush, though not entirely with shame. What will her future daughter look like? Dark haired like her father, or will Sansa pass on her Tully coloring? And their sons, what will they be like? _Large_ , Sansa thinks with a giggle, _big and strong. Honorable like Robb and Father...and even Sandor._

 

Lost in her thoughts as she is, it takes Sansa a moment to notice the sound of parchment crinkling. Sansa sits up, having reclined onto her pillows as she daydreamed. Curiously reaching under them, she finds smooth parchment. Dread knotting her stomach, she slowly unfolds the note.

 

 _Meet me in the godswood, my lovely Jonquil_.

 

Ser Dontos. Sansa knows she should have somehow contacted him to explain she is going through with her marriage to Sandor, but there has been so little time. And in truth, she simply hoped that Dontos would give up and forget the whole mess. He certainly hadn't rushed to rescue her before her betrothal was announced, so what is the point of bothering now that she is going to be wed?

 

“I'll explain,” she announces firmly. “He will understand. I'm sure he'll be pleased.”

 

The memory of Ser Dontos's sloppy kisses, always aimed for her mouth or neck and never her cheeks, mingle with that of his eternally moist hands. They grab more often than not, sliding too low or high to be proper. The memory of these actions take the strength from her conviction, and Sansa suddenly feels empty. Aching with the loss of her previous happiness, she resolves to go to the godswood directly after dinner and wait for Dontos.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Sandor ignores the light, persistent rapping upon his door for as long as he can. It is long past sunfall and the Lannisters can go fuck themselves, he is no longer a Kingsguard or personal guard. The knocking persists even after he hurls a dagger and several curses at the door. Giving in, he opens the door on a snarl of, “The fuck is it?”

 

It is the last person he’d expected to see on his threshold is Sansa Stark. His betrothed. Faintly stunned, Sandor blinks in shock before his expression slides back into his habitual scowl.

 

A flash of pleasure at knowing _she_ has sought _him_ out strikes. It fades, however, as soon as Sandor truly _looks_. Her hair is wild, leaves caught in the tumbled twists. Dirt streaks across one high, smooth cheekbone. Sansa's narrow shoulders tremble with each short, ragged breath she draws. Tears glint in her eyes, and her dress is torn. All of this Sandor absorbs in a split second, all while she is still opening her mouth and attempting to speak. Taking her fragile wrist in hand, he tugs her inside.

 

“Was it Joffrey?” he asks, but only after the door has fallen shut. Sansa shakes her head, tears streaking down her dirty face. “One of his Kingsguard? A Lannister guard?”

 

“No, i-it was – it –” Sansa is obviously on the verge of breaking down. Despite the glaze of shock in her eyes and the bubble of hysteria that curls around her gasped words, it is equally obvious that she is fighting like a starved wolf to maintain control. Taking in several more breaths, she finally meets Sandor's gaze. “Gods have mercy on me, but I t-think I've killed him.”

 

Torn between bafflement and pride – _little bird has talons, does she?_ – Sandor takes a moment to watch this cowering girl cover her mouth with a trembling hand. Choking on a sob, she shudders.

 

“Sit down,” he orders, pushing her into a chair. She falls into it, too shaken to fight. Sandor is quick to snag a wine skin, pulling the cork out with his teeth before pressing it into her hands. “Drink. No, girl, I said _drink_ , not sip. Another. One more – burns, doesn't it? Good. Now, tell me what the buggering hell has happened.”

 

“I think I killed Ser Dontos in the godswood.” Sansa pushes the words out in a rush, as though terrified armed guards are going to spring out of the walls and take her away the moment she has confessed. Once the words are spoken and no hammer falls, she releases a long breath. Lifting a hand to rub her forehead, she marshals up that quiet strength Sandor has come to so deeply respect. “I told him I wasn't going with him – I explained that the king ordered me wed and I would do my duty, but he kept _insisting_ and then he got so angry … he grabbed me and pushed me down, and I didn't know what else to _do_!”

 

There is a story here, Sandor concludes, and he already mislikes the sound of it. “Why were you with that fool of a fool in the godswood?”

 

Sucking back tears, Sansa gives him the tale: Ser Dontos, acting as her Florian after she had saved him from death, and how he was biding time while promising to take her away. Not even an hour ago Sansa had met Dontos and explained that she would no longer be a part of his plans – and he had not been able to sweet-talk her out of it – the whorseson had attacked her.

 

“He knocked me down, going on about his money … he wasn't going to lose it because of me. There was a rock beside me. I grabbed it and I _hit_ _him._ There was blood, and he fell, and I think he's _dead …_ I don't know what to do! They're going to kill me, aren't they? Joffrey is going to _kill_ me for this …”

 

“Do you have a brain behind that pretty little face?” he hisses, throat aching with the need to _shout_. Taking her by the upper arms, Sandor gives her a sharp shake.

 

Sansa's battle with her tears are lost, and she practically wails. Sandor's arms and proximity keep her from hiding behind her hands, so she hangs her head, weeping.

 

“He was _playing_ you – no doubt he's working for someone. Gods be damned, Sansa. _Fuck_.” Releasing her, Sandor shoves his hands through his hair. His teeth are tightly gritted, mouth locked in a snarl.

 

“Stop crying,” he finally snaps, though by now one hand has reached out – almost of its own will – and is softly wiping moisture from her flushed, swollen face. “I doubt you killed the bastard. We're going back to the godswood, and I'll get the story from him. If he has an ounce of sense, he won't try to give me the same lies he fed you.”

 

Sandor takes only enough time to strap on his sword belt and shove a spare cloak at Sansa before they leave. By some miracle they encounter no one, though Sandor's neck prickles with the sense of being watched. The walls and streets of all King's Landing have eyes and ears that go right back to Varys. This only serves to make him angrier. Gods know what that fucking eunuch will do with this information if he receives it in full.

 

The damage could be enough to have Sansa killed for treason, and it makes red spots flicker at the edge of his vision. Over his cold dead corpse will he let Joffrey take his little bird's head off; if it means fighting his way out of King's Landing, so be it.

 

Sansa leads him into the godswood, to the massive heart tree. Despite not being a weirwood, a face was long ago carved upon it. It seem to watch Sandor, weighing his sins through the smokeberry vines that fall, hairlike, into it's eyes. Before the sacred tree is Dontos, hair sticky with blood and a stained rock beside his head. “Wait here,” Sandor orders, striding over to the fool.

 

He kicks the disgraced knight (but then, what knight _isn't_ a disgrace?) in the ribs, heard enough to roll the fat man over. He groans and belches, one hand rubbing at his no doubt aching head.

 

“He's alive!” Sansa gasps, sounding positively overjoyed.

 

It is probably best not to tell her how unlucky this is for Dontos.

 

Bending, Sandor grips the fool by the front of his motley, hauling him upright. Dontos struggles weakly, toes just barely scraping the forest floor as he squeaks and squeals like a captured pig. “Gods be good!” he cries, releasing his bladder. “Hound!”

 

For Sandor, intimidation comes easy. Massive height and thick muscles combine with deadly skills and a savaged face, making a man that many others have night terrors of meeting on the battlefield. Expression twisting into a mask of furious bloodlust, Sandor pushes his gnarled visage close to Dontos's own. The man has more to fear than most, given how he had lied to Sansa, used her, and _dared_ to attack her.

 

Sandor says nothing. He doesn't have too – Dontos begins babbling almost immediately.

 

“I-I'm sorry! I didn't do anything – I was just trying to help the girl – she asked me to, yes, poor little thing, all alone. She needed a friend, how could I say no? So I told her – I told her lies to make her happy, yes, to make her feel better, how could I not? Poor girl, poor girl...”

 

“I never. I _never_ asked you for anything! You sent me that note and bid me meet you in the godswood! _You_ promised to help me get home. I never _asked_ for you to do any of it, ser!”

 

“Children lie. Poor girl, can't blame her. She is scared, of course, who wouldn't –”

 

“If one more lie concerning the girl leaves your mouth, I will cut off a finger. For every lie you tell, I will cut off another, and another, and another. Should we run out of fingers, we will go on to toes. And after that, you have three more chances to tell it true; two balls and a cock.”

 

In the pale moonlight, with his back to the heart tree of Sansa's old gods, Dontos's tears mingle with the sweat pouring down his swollen face. For a moment his mouth works soundlessly, and he looks remarkably like a fish flung onto land. “It was Littlefinger!” he finally gasps, and Sandor is filled with disgust as the fool shits himself in fear. “He said that – that I owed the girl, since she was the one who convinced Joffrey to spare my life and make me a fool. All I had to do was meet with her, talk with her, let her know that preparations were being made for her escape. I was to be her Florian! It was a kindness, a _kindness_ , I swear!”

 

“Kindness? You are so craven you aren't even a man, and you expect me to believe you were doing this girl a _kindness_? What did Littlefinger promise you?”

 

“N-nothing!”

 

“ _What did he promise you_?” Another hard shake. Sandor's arm is beginning to ache dully from holding the fool aloft.

 

“Ten thousand gold dragons!”

 

Sandor drops the man, leaving him to crash down at his feet in a stinking heap. He looks very much like an overgrown, sobbing infant. “At least you know how much you are worth, little bird: ten thousand dragons.”

 

“I … I don't understand …” Looking far younger than she has since her father had been beheaded, Sansa slowly shakes her head. “Why would –”

 

“Lady Sansa Stark,” Sandor rasps fiercely, chest aching with how entirely _innocent_ she is. Even after all this time, all that has been done to her, she has no idea what men are willing to do for power. “Heir to Winterfell and the North. Your brother is making war, girl, and if he dies there, the North goes to you. If you are under Littlefinger's control, he can marry you to someone of his choosing, someone under him. Or to himself, and then he is Lord of Winterfell, and he has the daughter of the woman who spurned him, a younger and prettier replacement.”

 

Understanding blossoms over Sansa, darkening her eyes and paling her face even further. For a moment she seems likely to crumble, to collapse under the weight of the injustices of the world. Sandor fears this – he is a warrior, not a healer, and he could never hope to help her mend from these kinds of wounds. But before him a change comes over the girl. Suddenly she is less child, more woman, and _utterly_ Northern. She is ice and snow and frozen strength, back straightening and chin lifting to an imperious angle.

 

“Thank you for helping me understand,” she says softly, but with a thread of steel that Sandor had often heard in her lord father's voice. “What shall we do with this...man, my lord?”

 

Pride heats Sandor's innards. It brings a grim smile to his face as he surveys his little bird. Something tickles at the edge of his mind, a notion caught somewhere between an idea and a foretelling. It whispers that one day this girl will be a woman to be _feared_.

 

“We take him to the Lannisters. You'll cry, little bird, and sing a pretty song … he came to you several times in the godswood, attempting to convince you to escape with him. You denied him each time, but were too afraid to tell anyone, until this evening when youcame to me. Understand?”

 

Sansa's nod is small but firm.

 

Dontos weeps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, was I too hard on Dontos? I don't think so, but then again, I want to string him from my ceiling and use him as a punching bag, SO. Meanwhile, Shae is Shae from the show not the books, as book Shae is also on my Hate and Loathe and Want To Murder List, so you know. It happens.
> 
> Updated too soon, because I have zero self control and I am eyeball deep in this fic and having too much fun writing it. So much yet to come. A wedding, the bedding, and...oh, you thought I was going to tell, didn't you? SILLY BIRDS; TRICKS ARE FOR KIDS. Wait. Wrong story. What were we talking about?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by Manniness, who went ABOVE and BEYOND the call of duty as an International BFF to whip my ass and my writing into shape.

“She asked me to take her away, she did, she did, only I didn't know how to say no –”

 

“Clegane.” Lord Tywin rubs two fingers against his temple, mouth pinched in a taunt line.

 

A boot to the gut and the fool curls up on the floor, gagging on blood and vomit. Perhaps Sandor's smile is a bit too feral at the sight of this man's pain, but if so, no one comments on it.

 

Gathered in the Tower of the Hand is Lord Twyin, Queen Cersei, Lord Varys, Sansa, and Sandor. And Dontos. But given the way he is currently wallowing on the floor, dripping tears and snot and stinking like a privy, he's hardly human enough to be counted among them.

 

“You should have come to me immediately, Sansa. You stupid girl, I can't believe –” Cersei's spewing is cut off by an upraised hand from her father. The Queen huffs in annoyance, folding her arms under her breasts and glowering.

 

“Your Grace, I beg pardon, but perhaps it would be wise to consider that Lady Sansa is still quite young. Of course she is wary of involving herself in anything that may make her sound a traitor, as her father sadly proved himself to be.”

 

Sandor loathes Varys, hates the bald, plump, not-a-man fiercely. Not because he was cut, this Sandor could have forgiven (he knows of what it is to be made into something against your will, after all), but because of the eunuch's _actions_. He spies, lies, and spins needlessly intricate webs of deception. For a man of Sandor's nature, a creature like Varys is unforgivable.

 

“How is it that our Master of Whispers did not know what Littlefinger was doing, or that Dontos was causing the girl so much trouble? One of your _little birds_ should have flown to you and sang a pretty song about it.” Cersei appears furious enough to tear out Varys throat. Sandor suspects it is because she was woken from a wine-induced stupor; having been her personal guard for several years, he can see the signs.

 

“As a matter of fact, Your Grace, I was going to bring this to your attention as soon as I had gathered more information. I knew that Dontos had been visiting the godswood when Lady Sansa went to pray, and that she often left appearing upset; but alas, my birds never seem able to penetrate this last southron holdfast of the old gods.”

 

 _He lies_ , Sandor thinks, wariness tickling his spine. Why? What gain can the Spider have in protecting Sansa?

 

Bowing, Varys lowers his head. “I am sorry, my Queen. I should have come to you immediately.”

 

“Yes, Varys, you _should_ have.” Ruffled and irritated, Cersei rubs a hand across her eyes tiredly. “Baelish must be dealt with. Hound, I want his head. _Now_.”

 

Sandor thinks is an excellent plan. Lord Twyin, it seems, has other ideas.

 

“No. Clegane, you will remain. We must deal with Baelish carefully.”

 

“We would not have to deal with him at all if he were dead,” Cersei snips plainly, and while Sandor has no love for the woman, he agrees with her. He longs to gut Baelish for tempting his little bird into danger; the thought of what Sansa may have been subjected to. Had she allowed Dontos to take her to Littlefinger … there would have been nowhere in the vast, wide world Peter Baelish could hide if he had taken Sansa. Someway, somehow, the Hound _would_ have taken up his scent. And in retaliation for whatever schemes Baelish put his little bird in the middle of – for whatever perversions he might have pressed on her – Sandor would have killed him slowly. Inch by slow inch, until Baelish begged for mercy.

 

The moon rises to its zenith and begins to fall as the Lannisters and Varys talk and plot. They say one thing while meaning another, which makes Sandor's head ache fiercely. Dontos moans and cries softly, while Sandor stares into the distance and yearns for a skin of sour red. Sansa sits with her hands neatly folded in her lap, eyes lowered. They are finally dismissed with little being resolved, as far as Sandor can tell. It _is_ clear that Sansa is in no trouble. The queen's ire is up, but Cersei is always looking to find fault with the girl.

 

What matters is that Lord Twyin had believed Sansa's story, and so she is safe.

 

Rubbing a hand over his lower face, stubble and scars alike, Sandor again finds himself pining for wine. “If you find anymore fucking notes in your bed, _burn them_.”

 

At his side, Sansa winces. She walks with her head down and arms folded around her stomach, the posture of a beaten animal instead of a young lady. Sandor bites his tongueto keep from cursing. He aches to wrap her in cotton wool and tuck her away, out of sight of the court and the world as a whole. On the other hand, he knows that protecting Sansa will not truly _help_ her. She must learn to see the horrors, plots, and lies, or else she will end up dead by them.

 

The thought of Sansa Stark dead, the light gone from her eyes and never a chirp to pass her pink lips again nearly cripples him. Better she fear his words and learn the truth, rather than have poetry and songs and never see the axe coming for her little neck.

 

“I'm sorry,” Sansa whispers once they are outside her door. Placing a soft hand on his wrist, she looks to him with swollen eyes and an exhausted gaze. Her lower lip swollen and chaffed from the worrying her teeth have done to it. Sandor's gut clenches hard and fast. The lingering need for violence, the remnants of his rage swirls and morphs into lightning strikes of lust. “I'll never be able to properly thank or repay you for all you've done for me. I...I'm sorry I've been so much trouble for you, Sandor.”

 

The girl is too young and blind to see that he does not _want_ repayment or even thanks for the things he has done. Or perhaps he does, Sandor admits; thanks given in the form of his name falling from her tongue with caring. He wants her hands on his shoulders as she pulls him into her bed … most especially he wants her smiles.

 

Sneering at his own desires, Sandor barks out a rough laugh. “Trouble, is it? Aye, you're trouble.”

 

Recoiling as though he has hit her, Sansa presses a hand to her throat.

 

Belatedly he realizes that she has no _idea_ of his thoughts. or of the fact that he would do nearly _anything_ to please her. “Stop that,” he commands, stepping close. Too close, honestly; Sansa's back is against her door, and her breasts brush his chest with each inhalation. Without making a conscious effort to do so, he realizes his hand is at her waist. Strong, blunt fingers splay over her side and back as he palms the sweet curve of her young hip.

 

“You _are_ trouble, little bird, I won't deny it. I can't say I'm a man that has ever walked away from such...more that I'm the sort who seeks it out.” Sandor cannot hide the gruesome smile he wears.

 

Once Sansa has digested his words, she _beams_. And it is far, _far_ too much for Sandor; her hand on his wrist, her warm gaze and happy smile. Leaning forward, Sandor presses her flush against the door. A groan pushing through his teeth as his cock nestles against her soft stomach.

 

He kisses her, and it is not short or sweet or gentle. It is _hard_ ; he scrapes his teeth across her upper lip, and when she gasps he invades her mouth with short, searching strokes of his tongue. He kisses her as a man would kiss a woman grown. Barely more than a child, Sansa should not keen into his kiss, neither should she yield with such eagerness. It is too quickly paced and rough for her to truly respond. Despite this she follows his actions as best she is able. Quivering, whines of lust pushing up her slender throat, Sansa is happily devoured.

 

When his hand travels to her backside, cupping it through the many layers of fabric between their flesh, she mewls. Pulling Sansa onto her toes, Sandor presses hard against her, while knotting a hand in her fiery hair. But it is as he _lifts_ her --  takes her feet completely from the ground (stooping is putting a terrible crick in his neck) and pins her against the door -- his thoughtless display of strength allows Sansa to overpower him. She _opens her thighs_ , those sweet virgin thighs, cradling Sandor's hips between them.

 

“Oh, oh _gods_ ,” Sansa breathes, once his mouth is at her jaw and traveling down her throat. His hips press forward while Sandor groans, setting his teeth hard against the skin of her neck. Sansa twines her arms around his shoulders and – ever so slightly and hesitantly – mimics his desperate thrust with her own hips. The cry she gives is wordless and shocked; Sandor very nearly peaks, panting into her throat as he presses against her once more.

 

“Fuck,” he grits out, and then again, “ _fuck_ , Sansa.”

 

Behind her door is a bed, only steps away. He could take her inside, strip her bare, lay her down and _have her_. He doesn't think she would stop him. Not with all her little sounds, her fingers in his hair and the way she pushes against him as he ruts againsther like an animal.

 

It is this thought that stops Sandor – or him cools, rather, nothing but being inside Sansa and spilling his seed could truly stop his wanting now. The thought of taking her like the helpless dog he is, only days away from their wedding. Truthfully, Sandor could not possibly give less of a fuck in regards to her being a virgin on their wedding night, but he knows highborn girls are taught to place the majority of their worth on their intact maidenheads. Taking this away from Sansa, sweet little Sansa who does not even truly understand what they are doing … who smiles and says _thank you_ so when he has done something only passingly kind … who has kissed him without revulsion and said _we are going to be very happy_ without a doubt to be had ...

 

Sandor is not a man of honor. But for her, he can try.

 

One last kiss. It is almost gentle and not nearly deep enough, but Sansa makes those pretty, needy sounds and he thinks she is smiling against his disfigured mouth. Carefully he places her back on her feet and backs away, hands balled into fists. “Go inside,” he commands, “and bar your door.”

 

She flushes, biting her lip even as she twists her hands into the fabric of her skirts. “Your cloak –”

 

“Doesn't matter. Go, little bird.”

 

She fumbles with the latch, but inside she goes. Pausing with the door _almost_ shut, only half of her face visible in the moonlight from the window at the end corridor. She shyly whispers, “Goodnight, Sandor.”

 

He waits until he hears the bolt being slid into place before he leaves.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Joffrey had insisted that the wedding be held in the great sept of Baelor the Blessed, and Sansa had not attempted to fight him. Still, she wishes for summer snow and the heart tree at Winterfell; she imagines green moss and grass made icy in a cold snap, and instead of a marble floor she would walk on fallen leaves the color of blood. Her cheeks would be rosy from the wind, and Sandor would stand before the face of her father's gods, serious and upright, in the flowing yellow cloak Sansa had embroidered.

 

Robb would take the place of their father, and Catelyn would weep. They wouldn't understand, not at first, how _happy_ Sansa is to be tying herself to this rough man, but in time they would respect him as she does. Perhaps Jon would come down from the Wall to see her wed; Sansa would kiss his cheeks and hold his hands, sit him at the high table and proudly say, “This is my _brother_ ,” even if it caused her mother to grow sullen.

 

“My lady?” Tyrion Lannister speaks softly, snapping Sansa from her fantasy. The younger Lannister son was grievously injured in the Battle of Blackwater Bay; in truth, she cannot understand how he is not being heralded as a hero. When Sandor had left combat, driven away by the sight and stench of men dying in the embrace of poisonous green flames, Tyrion himself led a sortie out to defend the Mud Gate.

 

Despite being a dwarf, the men say he fought bravely and well. Many died by his axe, and while his face is now a ruin – even part of his nose is gone – he managed to survive when so many others did not. If he had acted so bravely under her father's command, Eddard Stark would have honored and thanked him. Sansa does not think Tyrion's lord father has even acknowledged his efforts to help win the battle.

 

“I'm sorry, my lord,” she says softly, a bittersweet sadness filling her heart. “I was thinking of Winterfell. We might have married before the heart tree, as Starks have done for centuries. Even my own parents, after Father came back from the war. Robb was already born, but Father insisted. Mother thought it queer, but...” Sansa trails off, blinking back stinging tears.

 

There is no point in dwelling what she cannot have ... and there is _no_ excuse for making herself appear so weak in front of a Lannister, despite how small he is.

 

The dwarf's eyes hold pity. His short fingers are gentle as they grip Sansa's own, squeezing softly. “If you were at Winterfell, you would not have to marry Clegane at all,” he whispers, and there is a spark of anger there. “I am sorry that my nephew is disgracing you like this, Lady Sansa. You deserve much better than you have been given.”

 

Is it a trick? Is he playing her? In truth, she doesn't think the Imp is; he has always been kind to her. Still...

 

“I am glad to serve the King in any way he wishes,” she dutifully responds, her smile becoming small and false. “It is an honor to marry his own guard, who has long served your esteemed family.”

 

“You are such a clever girl, Lady Sansa. I thank the gods that my sister never realized it, but I have always admired it.” This admission is heartfelt, and brings a wide smile to Tyrion's face. He looks like a monster when he smiles, worse than ever before with his new scar and missing nose. Once she pushes past her initial revulsion, Sansa finds herself accepting of his visage.

 

He did not ask to be ugly. Besides, Sansa has grown quite fond scars, even the disfiguring sort. She thinks they are more marks of strength and bravery than something to feared. Her father had worn scars, some small and some large, though none savaged his face. Eddard had born the signs of a warrior's life with pride.

 

One door to Baelor's is pulled open from the inside, just enough for Loras Tyrell to slide through. The tight passage rumples his fine tunic, which he straightens before bowing. “Lord Tyrion. I hope you won't mind, but I requested the honor of escorting our fine Lady Stark to her groom, and King Joffrey was kind enough to grant me this request.”

 

Tyrion looks nearly as relieved as Sansa feels. The dwarf had been ordered to walk Sansa down the asle in place of her father, but only to humiliate them both. Margaery must have had some hand in this, especially in Joffrey's acceptance.

 

“Gladly, Ser Loras. I understand that your family will be standing up for Lady Sansa?”

 

“Indeed. We have all grown so fond of her that we couldn't imagine being anywhere else on this happy day. Margaery loves her as she would a sister, and our grandmother thinks she is as sweet as she is beautiful.” Flowery words given with a saccharine smile, Loras waits until Tyrion has waddled to the doors before moving to Sansa and kissing her cheek.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, throat squeezing with emotion.

 

“I know I am not at all a replacement for your father, Lady Sansa, but I visited the godswood this morning. I asked your father's gods to send his spirit to be with me as I took you to your husband this day, and in truth I feel him with us now.” A surprisingly cool gust of wind picks up. For a moment it smells of summer snow and sentinel trees, the sulfur of the hot springs and the particular scent of rotting leafs from the weirwood. The breeze tugs at her maiden's cloak, ruffling the Stark colors.

 

Gone white, Loras blinks several times.

 

“The old gods hear our prayers,” Sansa says softly. Loras' face blurs, but she is quick to blink the tears away. She may take Sandor's cloak today, but she will always be a Stark, and Starks do not weep before the entirety of their enemies.

 

When the doors to Baelor's open, her hand is on Loras' arm and he has recovered his smile. The entire court has come to see the Stark heiress wed the Hound. Their gaze isa heavy weight, heavier than the silver chain fastening her maiden's cloak, heavier even than her jewels and elaborate dress. Whispers run up and down the asle, running mouth to ear and back to mouth once more. Sansa does not need to hear their words to understand the uneasy tone of the crowd.

 

The nobles mislike a girl of her station being wedded to Sandor, who is lowborn _and_ a second son. If Robb dies he will hold Winterfell through her, will become a high lord though he has no idea of what being a lord actually entails. They think him a brutal butcher incapable of higher thought, and imagining him as Warden of the North … it stirs the ire and trepidation of many.

 

This knowledge coaxes up Sansa's smile, a secretive curl of her mouth that lights up her eyes. Let them dwell on this, add it to the list of other sins Joffrey has committed and will continue to commit. They will revolt sooner or later; as Tyrion had reminded his nephew, the Mad King had once thought he could do anything he pleased. The world knows how that story ended.

 

“Luck,” Ser Loras whispers when he kisses Sansa's cheek. He passes her hand to Sandor, who takes it tentatively, as though afraid he may break her.

 

Some of the tension in Sansa's shoulders and neck leaks away after taking her place at Sandor's side. Despite being in front of so many, a snickering Joffrey included, she feels much safer with him than she would be alone.

 

The ceremony takes too long. Sansa's gown is heavy and her pearl encrusted maiden's cloak is heaver still; trapped beneath it, her hair long hair is loose and it sticks to the back and sides of her neck as she begins to sweat. Still, she keeps her fingers tight on Sandor's wrist and speaks her vows clearly when the time comes. It is a physical ache when her maiden's cloak is removed, the Stark colors and direwolf swept away by Ser Loras.

 

Do all women feel this hurt of displacement? Sansa wonders, thinking on all those who have come before her, the daughters which will come after. She had been born a Stark, and it is the blood of the North that pumps through her veins and will be passed to her children. The Lannisters wish to do more than take away the colors and sigil of her house. They want her to become the wife of their sworn servant, which is a slap in the face to her brother Robb and his own kingship.

 

She turns her back to Sandor, breathing deeply as, for a brief moment, she is a free woman. Not Stark nor Clegane; neither daughter nor wife; she is only Sansa, unburdened and unencumbered by the restrictions of her birth and the curse of her captivity. If there was ever a time to flee, it is now. She could barrel Ser Loras down – he would topple in his shock – and Sansa would dart out a little side door. Selling her jewels would give her money, and she could hire someone to take her to Riverrun and the remains of her family.

 

Or she would be caught and punished, possibly killed. But she would be _free_.

 

A deep inhale, air stirring around her sweat slicked neck. Behind her comes the sound of Sandor shaking out his cloak – _her_ cloak, now – and it stills Sansa's feet. Her limbs cease their quivering with the urge to bolt, and serenity falls over her as softly as the first winter snow. Light silk is draped over her shoulders, and she helps pull it in place.

 

 _My choice_ , she thinks, and something in her heart is soothed. _I choose to stay with him, to not run away or fight this. Joffrey has nothing to do with this, now_.

 

Arms coming from behind her, Sandor fastens the cloak at her neck. He is close enough that his body heat throbs against her back, even through so many layers of fabric. When she looks down, it is to see his strong, nimble fingers shaking. Before entirely withdrawing his hands, Sandor pulls Sansa's hair from under the cloak, leaving it free to flow and softly curl across yellow silk and its three black hounds.

 

With the first deep breath of her new life, Sansa turns and lifts her gaze – so far up, sometimes she forgets how _large_ he is – heart lodged in her throat. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”

 

A small, almost unnoticeable pause comes here. Gray eyes flicker over Sansa from head to heel, taking her in; how does she appear to Sandor? Flushed from more than the heat and wrapped in his family cloak … she cannot read the expression in his eyes, cannot begin to guess his thoughts. The only thing she is certain of is that the rage he always burns with has fled, and the trembling of his fingers is mimicked in the small tremor of his lips before he speaks. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my wife and lady.”

 

The kiss is brief, and yet Sansa is hyper-aware of its many parts. The scratch of his beard and the way her lower lip fits between both of Sandor's, as though it had been madeto settle there; the notched gap where the fire had burned away the corner of his mouth, and how he tries to angle himself so this ruined part does not touch her (she must find a way to make him see that she doesn't mind it at all); even his steadying hand at her hip as she stands on her toes to receive him.

 

As they part, Sansa opens her eyes to discover that she and Sandor are bathed in the rainbow light of the septon's crystal. Loudly he speaks the final words; “We stand here in the sight of gods and man, to witness this union; one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one that comes between them. I do solemnly proclaim Sandor of House Clegane and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife.”

 

“Is it binding when he's missing a good portion of his flesh?” Joffrey jests too loudly, and is discretely hushed by his mother.

 

Sansa ignores the jape, curling her arm tight around her new husband's to keep his focus on her. He gives a small nod, an acknowledgment of her intent, but his jaw is tight and his eyes have grown fierce. Therage has returned.

 

The feast – most especially the free flowing wine – lightens the mood of the lords and ladies. Sandor and Sansa sit below the royal table, alone. “I wonder how long we're expected to stay?” Sansa asks quietly.

 

Snorting, Sandor lifts his goblet, taking a long drink of rich red wine. “Until the first of the lords begin passing out in the plum pudding,” he answers, remaining eyebrow quirking up. “So eager for the bedding, little bird?”

 

She can feel the flush overtaking her entire face, trailing down her neck and the exposed portion of her chest. “Mayhaps,” she answers daringly, wondering if she can shock him. Her laughter is bright and loud as Sandor sputters on his wine, blinking incredulously.

 

“Keep at that sort of talk, girl, and you'll be carried out of here over my shoulder.” He leans close – much closer than is proper, even for husband and wife – teeth flashing as he leers. It makes Sansa's stomach jolt, her toes and fingers tingling. She thinks of his kisses and his rough words when she thought he did not want her _that_ way, and how they made something deep and low inside her clinch and ache. It happens now and provokes the strangest noise of _wanting_ to escape her throat as her mind turns to thoughts of being yanked up and publicly hauled away.

 

“I wouldn't mind,” she admits, finding herself out of breath. Her words seem to hit Sandor with the force of a physical blow, widening his pupils even as he gives a soft, ragged groan. On the arm of his chair his hand flexes, long fingers clenching and unfurling. Sansa almost whimpers when her attention falls to arm. Dark hair curls lightly on his knuckles and the back of his hand, and before she is even aware of the movement, Sansa finds herself trailing her fingertips over the bulging veins and the knobs of his knuckles.

 

“ _Little bird_ ,” he rasps shakily, booted feet bracing against the floor, pushing back his chair.

 

 _He's going to do it_ , Sansa thinks giddily, _he's going to carry me away before the feast has finished and we've had a proper bedding_.

 

“Oh, _Sansa_ , you look beautiful!” Margaery appears without warning, swooping behind the table to perch on the arm of Sansa's chair. She wraps her arms around Sansa's shoulders, squeezing tightly before peppering her face in quick kisses. The improper behavior isn't at all fitting for a queen-to-be, but Sansa _adores_ Margaery for showing her such kindness. She does wishes it had come earlier, so Sandor _could_ have swept her away. They could even now be close to their bedchamber, and the thought makes her _ache_ with a new, strange longing.

 

“Thank you, Lady Margaery,” Sansa answers, blushing from more than the flattery.

 

“ _None_ of that lady nonsense,” Margaery decrees, nose wrinkling. “We are friends, aren't we? Who cares if someone hears us being _friendly_? Oh, here's Loras; Loras, isn't Sansa the most beautiful bride you have ever seen in all your life?”

 

Ser Loras Tyrell is so handsome that he himself seems something out of a fairytale. Sansa remembers the Hand's Tourney and when he had given her a rose, and how she had been overwhelmed with adoration for the the handsome knight. Now she feels only a fondness for him as he, too, comes behind the bride-and-groom's table.

 

As Margaery has taken the arm of Sansa's chair, he hoists himself to the table. Dark curls fall into his face as he beams. “Indeed she is, my dear sister. You glowed as you wed your husband, and even now I see the blush of love on your cheeks. I'm surprised Clegane hasn't swept you away already!”Loras laughs brightly.

 

The look Sansa shoots her new husband is guilty, thrilled, and longing. His eyes still burn right through her, and as he removes his goblet from his mouth and licks a droplet of wine from his lower lip, Sansa becomes lightheaded.

 

The arrival of the first course draws the Tyrells back to the royal dais, leaving Sansa and her new husband alone. It may kill her, Sansa decides, but she is _absolutely_ going to be the perfect picture of a lady during her wedding feast. Sandor deserves more than a gaping, blushing, eager to be swept away little girl as his wife.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

The wedding feast does not end with a bedding.

 

“A toast!” King Joffrey calls, gangly arms failing as he finds his feet. “A toast to the Hound and his Lady Whore!”

 

Sandor can feel the muscle in his jaw jumping in rage. He is a heartbeat away from pulling the dirk from his boot and throwing it; he longs to watch the blade sink into one green eye, and see the boy king fall back, dead. Fingers and muscles flexing, he contents himself with the satisfaction the dream brings without acting upon it.

 

Joffrey, roaring hysterically at his own joke, is rendered speechless. Rather than by his dog, he has been slain by his own wit and snorted wine out of his nose while cackling. Cersei, flushed with rage and drink both, pulls at his arm, no doubt trying to force the drunken boy back to his seat.

 

“Did you hear, Mother? Lady _Whore_!” Collapsing into another fit of giggles, Joffrey turns to his mother seconds before his laughter dies and a strange look crosses his face.

 

“Joffrey?” asks the Queen, worried. Her son heaves, vomiting a belly full of Dornish red and what seems to be pease across her lap. Cersei shrieks. Tywin Lannister begins ordering the Kingsguard to take the King away, and Joffrey – fifteen and wine sick for perhaps the first time in his life – gives a snorting chortle before passing out.

 

His head slams against the table edge as he falls, leaving a smear of red blood on the white linen.

 

Ribs aching from sucking back his own laughter, Sandor takes Sansa by the hand. “Hurry,” he orders, pulling until she stands and follows him. The gathered courtiers are too involved in the mockery the King has made of himself – some genuinely concerned for his welfare and the rest all but rolling on the floor in hysterics – to notice the newly wedded couple sneaking away. Or perhaps a few do, and simply have no interest in attempting to strip the Hound's new wife, or the Hound himself.

 

Outside the hall, Sandor scoops Sansa up, moving quickly. She is trembling , hissing and squeaking as she attempts to silence her giggles. By the time they make it their new rooms (as a married couple, their former residences in the Red Keep would be much too small for the both of them) she is biting her knuckles.

 

Sandor busies himself with setting Sansa on her feet. After he bolts and bars the door, bracing one hand on the wall before he dares meet her gaze. Sansa makes that strange little hiss again – water coming to boil and half-choked giggles combined – while he gives a guffaw loud and deep enough to rattle the stones of the Keep. After this there is no holding it back; he collapses with his back against the wall, weakened by the force of his amusement, while Sansa leans heavily against his chest, tears of mirth dribbling from her eyes.

 

“We – shouldn't – _laugh_ –” Sansa forces out between gales.

 

“Bloody hell we shouldn't! _That_ was the best wedding gift I could have ever received.”

 

“Did you – see his – _face_? He sort of –” Mimicking the look of idiotic bliss the king wore before he fell, Sansa has to curl an arm around her stomach. “Oh – oh this isn't lady like – I shouldn't – but he was _sick on the Queen_!”

 

A fresh wave actually weakens Sandor, forcing him to slide down the wall until he sits. Sansa comes with him, ending up half-between his knees and half-on his lap, clinging to his shoulders and actually _sobbing_ with laughter.

 

Sandor doesn't think he has _ever_ laughed like this in his life. Even as a child, when his sister had been alive, Gregor had abhorred noise and punished them for laughing too loudly. In truth, there has been tragically little to laugh about in his life. Though he may be wine-and-mirth drunk, Sandor hopes that this is a sign of their coming life together. He wants this for Sansa always: laughter and cheer, happiness and peace. Safety above all else, and freedom from Joffrey, the Queen, and the court.

 

“Oh, little bird,” he sighs, a strange, soft smile curling his mouth as pushes hair away from her glowing face. She tips her chin up, radiant. Smooth skin rubs, feline-like, against his rough palm and fingers before she nestles the side of her face into his hand. There is no fear in her eyes; they shine with warmth. She smiles for him, all wine-stained lips and trust, and Sandor is crushed under the weight of his realization.

 

He loves Sansa Stark ( _Clegane_ , he reminds himself in both awe and pride, _she is my_ _ **wife**_ _now_ ), but not in the way the court would find acceptable: falsehoods presented to satisfy a fleeting lust. What he feels for Sansa is more than that. More than had he ever thought could be real.

 

Fingertips running along his ruined jawline take him by surprise, and Sandor cannot stop his instinctive flinch. Though he catches her wrist, Sansa easily pulls out of the loose grasp, resuming her exploration of his scars.

 

Shame very nearly overwhelms Sandor. It doesn't matter how fierce of a warrior he is, how loyal, how _much_ he cares for her, or even the lengths he is willing to go to keep her safe … he will never, _never_ be enough for this beautiful girl. The Hound is a ruined, scarred, ugly man that kills in the manner of a rabid dog, and the fact that she is forced to face him nearly breaks his heart.

 

“Do you know,” Sansa speaks lowly, jerking him from his thoughts. He can feel little through his scars, though he _knows_ her touch is there. A pressure more than a sensation. “I've found myself beginning to think you handsome.”

 

Jerking his chin up, fury wells in his chest. How _dare_ she _mock him_ –

 

“Shh,” she soothes, pulling his face back down. A wiggle and push finds her higher in his lap, legs astride his hips as she takes his face between both her delicate little hands. “I'm not being cruel, I swear. Just as you are, scars and all … you are handsome to _me_ , Sandor. Because of all you've done for me, and how _good_ you are to me, and even how I...I feel for you. When Ser Loras removed my maiden's cloak today, I thought, 'I can run.' I could have. I don't know if I could have even made it out of the sept, but I _could have_. I think Joffrey would have killed me if I'd been caught, would have cut off my head and mounted it beside Father's, but I wouldn't have minded. It would have been my choice, do you see?

 

“I have so _few_ choices left. The queen orders my clothing. Joffrey tells me who to wed. I eat when and what they give me, and even sleep in a bed they provide. But today I had a choice, to stay or to run as I was uncloaked and belonged to no one but myself. I was only Sansa. I _chose_ not to run; not out of fear, certainly not out of pity … I chose to stay with you because I care for you. I am glad I married you today, and will continue to be glad of it for the rest of my life.” Looking down, Sansa rests her forehead against his blunt chin. Nervous, self-deprecating laughter wells out of her throat. “I'm sorry, I know I must sound like a silly little girl –”

 

“No,” Sandor cuts her off hoarsely. Pushing a hand into her hair, filling his palm and fingers with slick, perfumed copper tendrils, he gently pulls until she looks up at him. “You don't sound like a little girl. I've never heard you sound  _less_  like a child than you do now.”

Sansa Clegane kisses her husband for the first time – of her own free will, out of her own desire to touch him– and to Sandor it is an irrevocable brand across his soul: _I belong to her_ , it sears, _and she belongs to me._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dodges rotten fruit* SMUT NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE PLEASE DON'T KILL ME.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven hells, but the tension headaches this fucking chapter gave me. I wanted their first time to be brilliant and wonderful and _still_ be a first time, with all the hitches and false starts that comes with losing your virginity. I'm not sure that I captured everything I wanted to, but with Manny's careful guidance I'm as close as I'll ever be. 
> 
> Speaking of Manny, she has done things for this story that I didn't even know were possible. Not only is she an absolutely AMAZING friend, she's the finest editor a girl could ask for. Even though I do spend revision time sullenly muttering, "I _liked_ that comma." (In the end I delete the commas, because they really aren't needed and I need to join a 12 Step Comma Addiction program.)

Sandor sits on the edge of his marriage bed, trying to remember how to breathe. How had he gotten here? A bout of laughter, a confession, a kiss, and then... Oh, yes. His little bird had taken his hand and tugged until he'd stood, angling him away from the table beside the warm hearth. His own feet had done the rest, choosing their destination: the bed. No, _their_ bed.

 

Sansa stands between his spread knees, the waterfall of her copper hair pulled over one slender shoulder. The fabric of her dress– the silk and lace she'd wed him in – fills his vision.

 

“I'll need your help with the laces,” she says, blushing like the maiden she is before presenting her back to him.

 

Sandor grunts, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation: highborn cunts wear the most complicated structures Sandor has _ever_ seen.. It isn't that Sandor _cannot_ undo the series of cinchs; neither is it that he _cannot_ undo the lacings once they are revealed to him.

 

What is absolutely baffling is that Sandor every _right_ to undress Sansa. A blessing, yes, one he never thought he’d have... Sandor _will_ take her to bed. Not because she is his wife, not even because he wants her (though there is no question in regards to denying the depth and breadth of his lust for this girl), but because he _must._ To protect her from Joffrey's wrath, he must bed his little bird. Strip her bare, reveal every inch of milky white skin. Touch her. Kiss her; not just her ripe mouth, but _everywhere_. The bends of her elbows and knees. Under her arms. The tops of her feet, as well as the arches. Every ridge and knob of her spine. The delicate skin under her jaw. Her thin eyelids.

 

A short, shuddering inhale – all he can smell is Sansa – a rough exhale.

 

He reaches out.

 

He curls one hand over her hip as he deftly frees the first cinch. The second, the third, the fourth and final. He smooths the fold of fabric back, exposing the laces beneath. Bugger all – Sandor has seen holdfasts with fewer fortifications.

 

One tug, and the knot at the base loosens.

 

A second and it falls apart.

 

His fingers hover over the smooth leather thongs like brutish invaders on the verge of conquest. A man such as Sandor should not so much as lay eyes on something so finely crafted. His touch does not belong here... except by some miracle, it _does_. He'd draped his cloak of protection across Sansa's shoulders in the presence of her gods and mortal men alike, and now the bindings that shields her skin from his touch is his to undo.

 

Drawing in yet another shuddering breath, Sandor struggles against his baser urges. If he's this worked up over untying a fucking knot, he's going to spend himself across her thighs as soon as he settles between them.

 

The force he uses to pluck at the thongs is minimal. He fears busting them or somehow hurting Sansa with his strength. However, the leather is strong and the laces are much tighter than he'd imagined.

 

The flood of irritation dampens his lust. “Why did that foreign wench pack you in this thing like a bloody sausage?”

 

Flinching at his harsh tone, Sansa looks over one round shoulder. “What do you mean?” She blinks, as though genuinely baffled.

 

“Your laces, girl. You're tied in here like a buggering –” Sandor grunts in frustration. “They're too tight for you, little bird. Are you hurt?”

 

Breathless giggles are Sansa's first response to his question and it frustrates him. Does she think being trussed up like a war captive is _amusing?_

 

“Sandor...” She shakes her head, shoulders trembling with unreleased laughter. “Shae tied them looser than normal today, so I wouldn't grow faint.”

 

“ _Looser_ – are you out of your buggering mind, woman?” Continuing to attack the laces, Sandor slides his free hand follows his progress upward. Stiff ridges run through the bodice, up and down. There is no way she can move with any sort of ease in this contraption.

 

A pale, elegant hand takes hold of Sandor's own. She moves his fingers to one hard line, which he briefly traces before she drags them over the softer fabric between each. Although his erection had flagged at the thought of her pain, this intimacy makes him _throb_. And the girl has no idea of what she is doing to him.

 

“It's boning,” she explains.

 

“What's it for?”

 

“Well, it's meant to trim a woman's shape. And keep her from slouching.”

 

Sandor digests this information, eyes narrowing. “That's fucking ridiculous,” he announces. He pulls the fully unlaced bodice away, and hurls it across the room. Surprised, Sansa steps further into the protection of his embrace. “No more of that shit, do you hear me? I won't have it.”

 

Sansa's nod is lost on him as he finds himself face to fine silk. Her shift is the purest white and sweat dampens it in patches: the small of her back, between her shoulders, and a spot just above her left hip.

The moisture makes the fabric nearly translucent and Sandor clenches his jaw to stifle a rough noise of hunger.

 

Redirecting her gaze from the furiously discarded bodice, Sansa turns fully around, giving Sandor a wry look. “Will you be dressing me, my lord?” Her tone is light, teasing. “Every morning from now on?”

 

A muscle ticks under Sandor's eye. A low buzzing fills his ears. Is Sansa still speaking? He thinks she may be, but her words, _“Every morning from now on?”_ have filled his mind to bursting with flashes of the future: Sansa in the gray stillness before dawn, still asleep and pressed against him in along line of silken flesh and trust; soft sounds rolling from her throat as he runs his hand down her side and across her stomach; her sighs and moans when he lowers his mouth to her breasts.

 

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Sandor hears himself snarl, and suddenly he is pulling and she is falling. Tightening his legs, he traps her thighs; one hand he presses to the small of her back, holding her against him. “Dress you? Woman,I'm going to burn every scrap of fucking fabric you own and keep you in my bed.”

 

Sansa's breathing comes in short, heavy bursts. She twists her fingers into the tunic he still wears. “I could always wear your clothes.”

 

The thought brings a feral smile to Sandor's face. “Oh, aye,” he agrees, chuckling darkly. “I'd like to see you wandering about the Red Keep, wearing my tunic as your gown. The things they would say about us, little bird…”

 

When she shrugs, he can feel the muscles in her back flex. “I wouldn't mind.”

 

The thread of Sandor’s control, already frayed, snaps. Sansa squeals as Sandor twists, lying her down across the width of the the feather bed. Straddling her legs, one knee on the mattress and one booted foot on the floor, he looms over her.

 

By all rights she should be frightened – she must remember the night of the Blackwater, his knife against her throat as he had demanded a song. She hadn't understood then… and she still doesn't, not entirely. Sandor will be enlightening her very shortly.

 

“You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?”

 

“I will sing it for you gladly,” Sansa answers, an echo of the not so distant past. Her hand explores his face, tracing the unnatural lines and crags of scars as contentedly as she might touch a handsome man's brow, cheekbone, and strong jaw.

 

Sansa meets his gaze, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

 

Sandor Clegane kisses his wife as a starved man would attack a feast. And he _is_ starved. He hungers for the way she whines into his mouth. He laps up every touch of her shy little tongue as it follows his own, eager to learn. He basks in the frustrated wriggling of her body beneath his. He savors the feel of her hands threading through the fine, black strands of his hair, clutching with every tug and nip he lavishes upon her lips.

 

Still, all this is not enough. He is greedy, so fucking _greedy_ , and he needs more. More, more, more: more skin, more sweat, and more of Sansa's urgent whines. Gods aboveand hells below, Sandor _needs_ more of her, his little bird, his _wife_...

 

He hungers for the feel of skin sliding against skin, and hercunt – wet and hot – wrapped around his cock. The thought of being inside her (and _**knowing**_ he soon will be) is enough to make him groan andnearly peak in his bloody breaches.

 

He tastes the skin of her neck and presses his tongue to her pulse. It is rapid and hard, echoing his own escalating heartbeat. Sandor shudders, biting down to clench the vein between his teeth. Never before has he so completely slipped into his Lannister-given identity: a dog. An animal. Primal, feral, holding his little bird in place and taking her life between his sharp teeth.

 

Before Sandor can worry that he is moving too quickly and treating her too harshly, Sansa begins fighting the constraints of her skirts. One leg is all she manages to lift, but soon enough that single foot is hooked behind his knee and she's arching into him. Sansa gasps, jerks, and battles against the heft of her skirts.

 

“ _Sandor_ ,” she mewls. Coming off her tongue his name is a prayer, a hymnal of lust and desire. Sansa plucks and tugs at his tunic until her hands push inside his collar. She clings to the sideof his throat as though desperate to feel his skin.

 

Bracing himself on one forearm, Sandor releases her to burrow his free hand under Sansa's supple back. He gropes for the laces that hold her skirts in place. If he doesn't have the knot in his hand within the next two seconds, he is taking his knife out and _cutting_ the buggering obstacle open.

Sansa would chirp in outrageover the loss, but he is so close to _genuinely_ not caring that it doesn't matter.

 

The leather thong snags on his rough fingers and with a sharp jerk the fabric sags her waist, loose enough for Sandor to slide a hand in side. He is so close to his goal. _So close!_ Before he begins pawing at her in a mindless hunger, he breaks her grip and stands. Sansa protests with a wordless whine before pushing up on her elbows. She actually _pouts._

 

Wearing a ferocious grin. Sandor takes fistfuls of the fabric and, with a hard wrench, her skirts are yanked past her knees. Sansa fights free of them, digging her heels into the mattress. She pushes fully onto the bed so that her feet are no longer dangling off the edge.

 

Sandor crawls after her, hemming her in with his thickly muscled arms and legs.

 

“And what now, _wife?_ ” Teasing her satisfies some urge Sandor hadn't realized he possessed (or perhaps it is more than he possesses it only with Sansa). The flush covering her face and neck heightens, and he takes the time admiring the effect he has on her.

 

“Now?” she repeats, looking rather lost. “I, um... I don't ...”

 

He kisses her, and it is a light, fleeting thing. Pride swells in Sandor's chest as, when he pulls away, Sansa tries to follow him.

 

“What do you want, little bird?”

 

Sansa shivers, her pupils widening to black voids surrounded only by only the thinnest ring of brilliant blue. “I don't know,” she deflects, but her gaze is flickering over the breadth of his shoulders and across his barrel chest in a most telling manner.

 

“I told you, girl, hounds can smell out lies.” To prove his point – to relish in the slide of her smooth skin over his scars – Sandor buries his nose in her neck. “You want, I know you do. I can near taste it.” His tongue touches her neck, a brief flick to taste the sweat gathered there.

 

Sansa moans. “I don't know. But I like – I like your kisses.”

 

Sandor shudders. Beside Sansa's hip, he balls one hand into a tight fist. Oh, aye, only in all his wildest dreams he had fantasied of hearing the beautiful, _innocent_ Lady Sansa Stark saying such things... and truly _meaning_ them. But he never expected that those dreams would become reality.

 

He has never been genuinely desired before. And for _Sansa_ to be the one who wants him...

 

“Do you?” He presses an open-mouthed caress to the hollow of her neck, breathing hard through his nose as he fights to keep his composure. “What else, little bird?”

 

“I – I like –” Sansa's head turns away in shame. One graceful hand lifts, covering her eyes before she blurts out, “I like how you feel on top of me, like this.”

 

The muscles in Sandor's jaw strain. These simple words have driven him to his figurative knees _far_ more effectively than any sword ever has or could. “Anything else?” he somehow manages to rasp out.

 

A small nod. She does not remove her hand from her eyes, but Sandor decides to fight that battle another time; for now, he wants her admissions. It will take another level of time and experience for Sansa to unabashedly offer her own longings and desires to him.

 

“I want to feel your skin,” she admits in a frantic rush, trembling in a mix of anticipation and shame. “Please. If – if that is acceptable.”

 

For a moment, Sandor is struck dumb. _She_ wants to feel _him?_ He cannot comprehend why, and his shock nearly boils into anger. It is a knee-jerk reaction for Sandor to attack first and ask questions later.

 

He draws a deep breath. Then another, and another, and one more. An extra, just for good measure. Frightening her would ruin all the progress they've made – and he doesn't want her associating bed play with one of his rages. So he bites it down, accepts his shock (and under it, the acknowledgment of how incredibly _humbled_ he is), and kisses her. _Deeply_.

 

“You'll have me bare soon,” he attempts to tease, though his words end on a groan. Taking the hand from her eyes, Sansa begins to play with the ties of his tunic, nibbling at her lower lip. “Though not yet, little bird.”

 

Smoothing the hair from her face, Sandor draws Sansa into a series of long kisses. She responds beautifully, pulling at his neck and remaining ear, pressing against his chest and even – much to the determent of Sandor's intent to go slowly – tentatively shifting and rolling her hips. It drives him _mad_ , pushing him beyond logical thoughts. He has only needs and desires now, and all they are focused on seeing Sansa entirely nude. To learn the secrets of her body and discover what will bring her the most pleasure.

 

Sandor drags in heavy, rough breath while fisting his hands in the delicate silk of her shift. Ittakes only a small show of strength to rip it down the center.

 

Sansa yelps, hands fluttering nervously. “My lord!”

 

“You'll use my name, _Sansa_ ,” he hoarsely commands, his gray gaze locked on the pale, flesh exposed between the two ragged edges. Her navel is of particular interest. How will she react when he dips his tongue into it? “Or 'husband.' Aye, that will do fine.”

 

With one hand, Sandor pushes the torn silk aside. Her teats are bared to his gaze now, and never has he seen a woman so finely made. Dragging in a heavy breath, he lightly trails his fingers over the flesh now at his mercy. The softness makes him want to weep. She is so delicate, so _fragile..._ he can hardly believe that Sansa is real. Briefly, Sandor is overwhelmed with fear; nothing this pure and wondrous can survive his fierce lust.

 

Sansa tries to fold her arms over her chest in an attempt to protect her maidenly innocence. Uttering a low, soothing sound in the back of his throat, Sandor captures her wrists. He pushes them down to the mattress, shaking his head slowly. “Don't hide,” he rasps, swallowing hard. “Never hide. Not from me. Gods be damned, little bird, you're perfect,” he swears.

 

Shock is written clearly across Sansa's expressive face, and it quickly morphs into pleasure. She's blushing again, so fiercely that it extends down to the tops of her breasts. Watching her strain upward with a pursed mouth, it takes Sandor a moment to comprehend that she wants a kiss. He willing gives it, releasing her wrists to thread to their fingers together.

 

Holding tightly to his hands, Sansa begins to scatter kisses over the parts of his face that she can reach. “My husband,” she sighs contentedly, rubbing the tips of their noses together.

 

_He_ needs a moment to gain control. _She is innocent_ , Sandor forces himself to remember with every beat of his heart. He must go slowly. Maidens experience pain, and Sandor does not want to hurt her. He wants her pleasure, yearns to bring her such bliss that she spends the rest of her life demanding he pleasure her again and again and again.

 

And he will. _Gladly._

 

He softly kisses the underside of her breast, and each that follows is lingering and warm as Sandor slowly worships small bits of flesh. First his scars and then his stubble rasp against one taunt nipple when he moves just so, and each time Sansa's breathing hitches. Soft, breathless sounds of wanting well out of her, a bubbling spring of desire. He licks, tasting the the sweetness left in the wake of her perfumed soap. He scrapes his teeth across the exquisite flesh that is now his to enjoy, laughing lowly when Sansa's hips jerk involuntarily at the sensation.

 

By the time he has worked his way in, by the time his mouth hovers over the rosy bud of her nipple,

Sansa is one tug away from pulling a handful of his hair out. He lifts hi ~~s~~ gaze, pinning her with his hot, gray stare watching as he swipes his tongue across the taut peak.

 

Sansa _sobs_ , twisting and rocking closer to his mouth. “Again,” she begs, “Please, again. Please – Sandor – _oh_ –”

 

Sandor feels more powerful than any king as he brings her pleasure. A shiver crawls up his spine, and Sandor fights for breath. _She is innocent_ , his heartbeat recalls. _She is innocent. Slowly. Go slowly._

 

He gives the same tortuous treatment to the opposite teat. Sansa bucks, struggles, and contortsall in an attempt to bring his mouth to where she _wants_ it. Sandor again captures her wrists with one large hand and pins them above her head. He uses his legs and the weight of his body to better hold her in place. Sansa hisses in frustration.

 

Finally, he sucks her waiting nipple into his mouth. Sansa chokes on words that sound very much like _thank you,_ her nubile body vibrating with pleasure. This simple touch is such a little thing, and yet it drives her mad. It's a reminder that no one, _no one_ , has touched her like this before. Joffrey had been cruel to her, aye, and he'd had his buggering knights beat Sandor's little bird. The brat may hold Sansa's fear and pain, but her pleasure belongs to Sandor and Sandor alone. Each sigh, cry, and breathy beg; every push of her body and each restless squirm – all of this is his, and it is a much finer kingdom than the shit hole that Joffrey rules over.

 

“May I touch you now, Sandor? Please?” Her wrists twist in his grasp.

 

He reaches the absolute limit of his patience. Still, Sandor fights to keep a domineering hand on a portion of his control. Conquests are not often won in a single fell swoop, but in smaller battles and skirmishes. Ground is lost, but double or triple is regained.

 

For the second time, Sandor leaves the bed. By the time he has stripped his tunic away and has begun to hastily kick and fight his boots off, Sansa has only just sat up. “Off,” he growls. “Take that buggering thing _off_.”

 

A squirm, a wiggle, and Sansa holds the remains of her silk shift in her hands. This vision of her in only her small clothes and stockings, is one he will carry into the hells themselves.

 

Sansa looks around in a daze, as though confused as to what to do with the ruins of her shift.

 

“Throw it,” he orders, moments after freeing himself from one boot. She doesn't comply quickly enough, so he reaches out, yanking it from her hands, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

“Head on the pillows. Go. _Now_.”

 

Sansa scrambles to obey, flushed and shining with sweat in the hearth-light. Sandor watches her lie down at the head of the bed, visibly unsure of what to do. Her hands flutter helplessly. Finally they settle on her stomach, agitatedly caressing just above the drawstring of her small clothes.

 

That single, seemingly innocent gesture sets fire to a great many of Sandor's designs. The only reason he does not lose the last shreds of his restraint is because of the glint of confusion in Sansa's eyes. She is aroused, yes, there's no doubt of it; but she doesn't understand. Not fully.

 

Returning to the bed once his second boot has been toed off, Sandor gently stretches out on top of her, once again enjoying how perfectly her soft body fits and welcomes his own harder, larger shape. Though this time there is nothing but his breaches and her small clothes between them; this time, there is so much more _skin_ to be explored...

 

“Do you hurt, little bird? Show me where – is it here?” he asks, replacing the hand on her stomach with his own. He can span the entirety of it with his massive paw. It should make him feel like a brute, but it doesn't. Not in the least. Never has he felt more of a _man_ than he does now with his fingers and palm spread out against her soft, round belly from hipbone to hipbone.

 

After a moment, Sansa nods. She's biting at her bottom lip again, nervous or abashed. Sandor isn't sure which. Perhaps both.

 

“Aches, doesn't it?” Sandor's hand moves deliberately downwards, until his smallest finger rests under the band of her small clothes. “It's because you're empty, girl. Empty _here_.” His hand moves further, and hair coarser than that on her head tickles two of his fingers. He exerts a slight pressure on her pelvic bone, mouth twitching as she moans.

 

“Don't fret, little bird. I'll be fixing that soon enough.” It takes an iron will to free his hand from the soft fabric concealing her cunt, and an even greater one to move down to her ankles. Sitting back on his haunches, Sandor places Sansa's narrow foot on his thigh.

 

He takes the time to admire the shape of her leg and how it looks encased in embroidered silk. He palms the rondure of her calf. He cradles her slender ankle between his thumb and forefinger. She's so fucking _dainty._ Sandor wonders how she has survived court life and Joffrey... and him. _Gods_ , how the buggering hell is she going survive being his _wife_?

 

Sansa regards Sandor in silence as he completes his survey, her graceful fingers curling into the bedsheets. Sandor can't say why he does it, not really, but he gives her a smile. Seven hells, he must look like a gargoyle, but his little bird appears delighted.

 

Rolling the stocking down her leg is an act of torture for Sandor. Has he ever done this with a whore or a kitchen wench? No. He has never _wanted_ to. He takes care not to tear the sheer fabric. Why? To prove he can. To assure them both that _he_ is fully in control, both of the situation and himself.

 

Flicking the wad of silk away, he gives the opposite leg the same treatment. Sansa's eyes flicker between his face, his hands, and his chest. Goose bumps break out over the skin he touches, and so he takes care to skim the tip of a finger in the bend of her kneeand rub his thumb reassuringly against the dip of her ankle.

 

She sighs when the stocking is gone.

 

Only one thing left, now. The last barrier between Sandor and the entirety of his little bird. Leaning slightly forward, Sandor curls the drawstring of her small clothes around his index finger before giving a firm tug. The knot falls away easily, and the fabric loosens. A heady rush overwhelms Sandor, and he rumbles with approving laughter. This is the very same feeling he gets on the battlefield, cutting down _knights_ and _sers_ left and right, overwhelming them all to stand victorious while they fall under his blade.

 

Sansa instantly presses her knees together. Something new enters her eyes – a glint of fear.

 

“None of that,” Sandor admonishes, but softly. He isn't _angry;_ a maiden is what she is. Itcan't be helped. Not the first time, at least.

 

His free hand pushes between her knees. They clamp shut against his invasion, but he strokes her, soothing her as he would any other frightened animal. The panic in her gaze lessens, and while she has to look away, Sansa allows the muscles of her thighs to relax.

 

“Is this…” Sansa pauses, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. The tapestry across the room becomes the object of her gaze. It is seemingly fascinating, given the way she refuses stop staring at it. “Is this normal? To be… entirely… _bare?”_

 

“Aye, it is,” he answers. “Didn't your septa explain?”

 

“Um, well, not… exactly.”

 

_Of course not_ , Sandor grimly realizes. The idiocies they fill a girl's head with – so little of it of any actual use. It's all to keep a girl from expecting toomuch from her husband; high lords take from their women whatever they please. A wife is only a _broodmare_ _,_ after all. A whore paid in titles, furs, and position. And children. Sons who will one day treat a woman as his mother had been, and daughters who will sing pretty bird songs and never question _why_ they are caged.

 

Not his wife. _Never_ for Sansa. He doesn't want her caged – he wants her free. In all the ways she possibly can be. He knows what it is to be locked in servitude, to be less than a person. The Hound is for killing enemies, a glorified sword. A wife is for fucking, prized only for the sons her womb will carry. Sansa is more than the sum of her parts, and Sandor will see her treated as such. She has given him the chance to be a _man;_ he must prove himself as such, and give her the chance to be a _woman_.

 

Sandor abandons the last barrier, and moves up in the bed to lie on his side beside his wife with his head propped upon one hand. She curls towards him, shyer than she has been the entire night. As the heat of passion cools, Sandor rubs a hand up and down her arm, hoping it comforts her. “What were you told of the marriage bed, girl?”

 

Sansa shifts onto her side as well. Not even a hand's width exists between their bodies.She takes hold of Sandor's free hand, playingwith his fingers, exploring each old scar, ridge, and line. She speaks without look at him, but for once it doesn't provoke Sandor's anger.

 

“My mother told me that when I was wed, my lord husband would guide me through what he expected of me. She warned me that the first few times would hurt. And to expect blood.”

 

“We'll, that's a fucking encouraging talk,” he angrily grumbles. Do the highborn want their women scared of dick? “And your septa?”

 

Sansa is flushing Lannister crimson now. “Septa Mordane said… she said I am to lie back and allow my husband to perform his duty. I am to think of the Seven and of the sons I will provide.” Both of her hands are busy with Sandor's. She strokes his palm while one thumb rubs circles on the thick knob of his wrist bone. “I suppose I've been doing it all wrong, haven't I? I _am_ sorry, Sandor.”

 

Sandor wants to dig that fucking septa up and kill her again. Seven _hells_ , but his palms itch to hold the weight of a blade.

 

Freeing himself from Sansa's increasingly desperate grip, Sandor reaches up. He takes a firm, though not painful, hold on her chin, and coaxes her to lift her face. Still her eyes remain downcast. She begins to fidget, even folding her arms in an attempt to hide those wondrous teats.

 

“Look at me.”

 

She shakes her head.

 

Sandor sighs heavily through his nose. “Sansa, _look_ at me.”

 

Sansa obeys with a cringe, though it is not for his face. No, she looks as though she expects to be hit or cruelly admonished. The sight of it is a knife between Sandor's ribs. Her fear does _not_ belong in their bedchamber.

 

“Your septa was a cold fucking fish, who didn't know shit about what she was talking about,” he announces. “I don't want you to lie back and think of the Seven or sons or anything else, do you hear me? You've done _nothing_ wrong, little bird.”

 

“But… but ladies don't...” She gestures helplessly. The wings of her collarbones draw Sandor's attention as they shift beneath her skin, and he wants to lavish attention on them. Not yet – they need to clear this particular matter up first.

 

“They do,” he refutes bluntly. “The lucky ones, at least. You're no whore, Sansa, fucking isn't your job. Even if it is fucking to have an heir. But this isn't about lying back and doing your _duty_ , either. You want me, little bird, and that's a good thing – the _best_ thing – as I want you, too.” _Fiercely,_ he doesn't say, wary of frightening her. _More than air, more than blood on my blade, more than life do I fucking_ _ **crave**_ _you, my little bird…_

 

“I'm going to tell you what is going to happen.” His hand drops from her chin and moves to her throat. He strokes, then sweeps his palm over her shoulder and down her bent arm. Gentle pressure at her elbow unfolds it, and he follows the slender limb down to her wrist. “I will touch you, little bird, as I was before.”

 

Her breath hitches, and her eyes take on that particular shine of lust Sandor is becoming so incredibly addicted to. “Where?” she asks, voice throatier than he has ever heard it.

 

A shaky breath. _Control_ , he urges himself. “Everywhere,” he answers roughly. “Your neck. I'll lick all the way down your spine and back up again. Your arse – oh, scandalized, are you? None of those dewy eyed _knights_ never told you what a fine, lovely arse you have?” He takes a handful of it, forcing a yelp of shock to escape her.

 

In an attempt to wiggle away from his hand, she pushes further into his body. Sandor grins, ducking his head to lavish attention on her ear, her jaw, the delicate underside of her chin. Restless movements overtake Sansa's limbs, and soon she presses close. The feel of her delicious teats stiffening against his coarse, dark hair reawakens his cock.

 

“And then?” Sansa asks, breaking Sandor from his haze. She has curled an arm over his ribs, and is now digging her fingers into the thick muscles of his back. The wool of his breaches is the only thing that keeps his cock from nestling needfully against the soft flesh of her stomach, and he cannot help but thrust against her, seeking relief.

 

Sandor groans from deep within his chest. “I'll kiss that pretty cunt,” he hoarsely answers. Her small clothes fold and wrinkle when Sandor begins to rub up and down Sansa's side, from her ribs to her knee. She sighs, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. At this, he takes a firm grip on the back of her thigh. One swift tug brings her leg over his own, and leaves her open to his searching touch.

 

Pressing her face against his chest, Sansa's entire body jerks and trembles when his fingers find their way between her thighs. Sandor's temples throb with the beat of his heart when he discovers damp linen awaiting his touch.

 

Crying out in astonishment, Sansa's nails dig into the flesh of his back.

 

“Shh,” he soothes, pushing fingers into her hair to grip the back of her head. “It's alright.”

 

“ _Sandor_ –” she whimpers, the leg tossed over his own curling in an involuntary movement. “I don't – I've never –”

 

“I know,” he assures her, fingers scrabbling to find their way past her small clothes, which end up bunched awkwardly around her thighs. It is enough. He palms her, sinking his fingers into damp curls and wet flesh.

 

Sansa rocks into his grip, and it is a smooth, slick slide. Sandor’s carefully laid strategies incinerate. A rush of movements and the shriek of tearing clothing rends the air. Sandor sinks down between her bent knees, sliding along her warm frame until her tight copper curls catch on his beard.

 

“Mother's mercy,” she sings in desperation, voice rising and wavering as he opens his mouth on her. “Gods, oh gods, _Sandor_ –”

 

He could not hope to describe the taste of her, heavy and thick, as her flavor slides past his tongue and down his throat. His shoulders brace her thighs apart while his thumbs carefully open her delicate folds. She is especially beautiful here, as startling as a lush oasis in the Dornish desert.

 

Sandor explores her with a dedication that surpasses even his devotion to the warrior's arts. Every lad knows of the little nub of nerves that is the center of a woman's pleasure. Even Sandor. Though paying attention to it had been a moot point with whores. With his little bird it is another matter:

with a curl of his tongue and a scrape of his teeth, he can make her howl like a wolf or beg like a wanton.

 

And he does, over and over again– until she screams as though he has run her through. Until he is drenched in her wetness, and she is on the brink of her first peak. When he pulls back she wails, a thin noise of thwarted pleasure.

 

“ _No,”_ she cries. A hand tangles in his hair, pulling and pressing in a vain attempt to guide him back to her cunt. Sandor laughs against her thigh, kisses the flesh and watches her shiver and flex asshe falls away from the yearned for pleasure.

 

“Not yet,” he says roughly, rubbing her trembling stomach. “Poor little bird. Aches even worse now, doesn't it?”

 

Sansa nods, eyes glazed and hair sticking to her sweaty face. “Something was… I don't know, but something was _happening_ …”

 

Sandor chuckles, awash in a smug male satisfaction he has never quite felt before. “Oh aye, it was. But as I said, you'll not have it yet.”

 

A whimper, long and high, escapes her throat. Her hips move restlessly. “When?” she pouts.

 

“When I allow it,” he answers. His forefinger runs down the wet center of her. Sansa moans, her head dropping back weakly.

 

He watches her face intently as he presses that finger to her entrance, gauging her reaction. She twitches at this new feeling, hazy eyes finding his gaze. The smile he gives her is feral.

 

Slowly he pushes, the bottom dropping out of his stomach and goose bumps racing up his back and arms, even flowing over his scalp. She's so _tight_ , so _hot_ , so very fucking _wet_. Above him, Sansa is gasping and sighing, fingers jerking and grasping hard at the sheets, in her hair, against her own skin.

 

“What…” she tries to ask, but he is knuckle-deep now and she's never been filled like this before. Her voice dies in her throat, taken over by a hard, shuddering exhale.

 

“This is for me,” he explains roughly, fighting for a lungful of air. Slowly he pulls out, watching as Sansa presses her heels into the mattress and lifts her hips. Again he pushes back in, and Sansa moans, her internal muscles clamping down _hard_ on the intrusion of his forefinger. “I'll fill you here, little bird. I'll make you whole.”

 

He sets a slow pace that pushes deep, stretching muscles and flesh that have never been tried in this way. Sansa rocks with his hand. Quietly, breathlessly she chants, “Please, please Sandor – help me – don't stop, please, don't stop – Mother's mercy, it's good, it's so good –” Her mindless string of pleas and praises drives Sandor's lust to a fever pitch.

 

The addition of a second finger is a shock to Sansa. She catapults into an almost upright position, propped up on her arms as her chest heaves and her eyes widen dramatically. Sandor stills his hand, allowing her to grow accustomed to the feeling.

 

“Do you hurt?” he asks, trailing his mouth over her hip bone.

 

Shaking her head, trembling like a leaf in a strong wind, Sansa answers negatively. “No. I don't – I don't think so – it's _good_ , but strange – I can feel you inside – your fingers –” With anotherdesperate clamp of internal muscles, she he pushes against him. “Move again. Please? Please, Sandor? It feels so – it feels – oh, _please_ –”

 

Harder, this time. Faster. Soft, wet noises accompany his ministrations, setting Sandor's teeth on edge and seven hells, but he doesn't think this is going to last very much longer. She's crying, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she is consumed by the rising pressure.

 

A third finger makes her hiss and go still, and once again he follows suit. Looking up, he finds her eyes narrowed and her expression pinched.

 

“It will pass,” he promises. “Relax, little bird. There. There you go.”

 

The first thrust and withdrawal drops Sansa to her back. Her legs thrash, while her hands claw against the mattress, his shoulders, and her thighs.

 

Sandor can wait no longer, not another moment. Withdrawing his hand, he crawls up her body. He kisses her stomach, her breastbone, her throat, finally her mouth. One hand fumbles with the laces of his breaches, and there comes a _twang_ of leather bursting before he is able to push them past his hips.

 

Kicking the fabric away, Sandor lowers himself onto Sansa. She clings to him, curling under and around his body and welcoming his weight. His cock rubs against her wet curls, and she pushes against him. Curiosity brightens her eyes, and Sandor wishes he had enough patience to allow Sansa the time to explore his body. That will have to wait for another time, however.

 

Between them his hand fumbles, shaking. She's whispering against his throat – “Yes, yes, yes; don't stop, please don't stop this time…” – but then he's _there_ , and pushing home. There is a slight resistance, but nothing as drastic as he had feared. Sansa stiffens, raising her voice as he fills her.

 

He can feel her breathing. Her hips shift, her muscles ripple and flex around his cock, and it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses not to fuck her within an inch of both their lives. Instead he grips her hip with one hand, holding her still.

 

“Fuck,” he hisses, unable to breathe. Unable to think. She surrounds him, is a part of him, as he is now a part of her. There is nothing outside of this, nothing beyond Sandor, Sansa, and their pleasure. “Gods be damned, little bird. My little bird.”

 

When he finally moves, it is slowly. He can feel her arm around his back, her other hand pressed against his chest. After a time her foot runs up his calf and hooks behind his knee.

 

“Harder,” she whimpers, straining against him. “As before, with your hand –”

 

With a snarl, Sandor obeys. His hips snap hard against her, and there is no doubt that she is going to have bruises on her hips from his fierce hold on them.

 

“ _Sweet, merciful Seven!_ ” Sansa's pleasure crests without warning. One moment she is reaching for it, biting his arm and sobbing in the back of her throat, and thenext every muscle in her body draws as taut as a bow string. Her cunt holds Sandor so tightly he cannot move.

 

Desperation takes over. Stars explode behind his eyes, flicker in his vision as he watches Sansa find her pleasure. A labored, high sound comes from her throat, her knees pull up, and Sandor finds himself cradled between her thighs and pulled deeper than he has ever been inside a woman. The pleasure of it is so great that it verges on pain, and Sandor shouts. Taking a grip on the headboard, he uses it to brace himself above her.

 

His peak hits with all the force of a warhorse stampeding over him. He dimly hears a roar, only vaguely realizing it comes from _his_ throat. For a time – long or short, he has no way of knowing which – there is only bliss, darkness behind his eyelids, and Sansa. Everywhere, everything in his world is _Sansa._

 

Before the strength in his arms gives out, Sandor rolls onto his side. He collapses, keeping Sansa pressed tight against him. When he has regained enough air to speak, he asks, in a voice deeper than usual, “Are you hurt?”

 

Looking down at the top of her fiery head, he watches Sansa rub her cheek against his chest. “No,” she answers, soft and breathless. “Not at all.”

 

For a moment he fears she is lying; tears roll down her flushed cheeks. They are warm against his chest and dampen the curling hair. “That – that was – is it always like… _that_?”

 

“Aye,” Sandor answers, rubbing his thumb under first one wet eye, then the other. “For us, little bird, it will always be like this.”

 

Her smile is brilliant.

 

For the first time since he'd beena child, Sandor sleeps deeply without the help of far too much wine. And in the morning, he wakes wrapped around Sansa. In her sleep her fingers have twined with his own, and there he leaves his hand, content to let the morning come in peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow, can we discuss how shit I am at titles, because this is a humdinger of a failure. Oh well, it serves. 
> 
> Not beta'ed, which means all mistakes are my own. Mostly I sit and cry because I fail at canon characterization, so there is little time for editing. Just for cold, cold tears. Second time writing for this fandom, first time for this ship (though it is my OTP to end all OTPs in this series), so any and ALL concrit is WELCOMED. Please. Please please.


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